Freud's Mistress Page 26

  “Hello, dears,” Amalia said, impatiently lifting her beaky chin, her dark eyes searching for her son. “Where’s Sigi?”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. He’s in a conference and won’t be able to join us.”

  Martha gave Minna a knowing look as Amalia turned her back on all of them, bit her thin lower lip, and climbed purposely back up the stairs. She’s impossible, Minna thought.

  When they entered the parlor, Jakob, Freud’s father, was sitting in his armchair reading a newspaper, puffing on his pipe. He smiled, rose from his chair, clapping an arm around each of the children. He was a tall, good-looking man, and Minna was fond of him, even though she knew Sigmund found him an embarrassment.

  But the children adored him. He pulled out a cigar box filled with cards he had bought from street hawkers and let the children choose from a variety of pictures—frog jockeys riding enormous rats, cat princesses at a ball, elves playing ring a ring o’ roses. In addition, he had postcards picturing the emperor flying above the clouds like a winged deity, his puffy white hair and rosy skin making him look like a strawberry ice, topped with whipped cream.

  “Let’s all sit down, shall we?” Jakob said, ignoring Amalia’s irritation about Sigmund’s absence. The dinner table, set for ten, was layered like a woman’s petticoat, with a white undercloth, a runner down the center, and several lace overlays. The smell of sauerbraten, Zwiebelkuchen, and Blatten mit Kraut brought the children to the table. But the combination of odors made Minna queasy.

  “I hired this new girl—maddeningly pathetic,” Amalia said, sitting up ramrod straight, sipping her soup. “She can’t cook or clean. I’ve a good mind to get rid of her tonight. Although, heaven knows, we don’t have the money to hire anyone better.”

  Minna and Martha shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Amalia casually insulted Jakob in front of the children.

  “Even with all his crazy schemes—stockpiling this or that—we used to at least have enough for decent help, but now he just sits around borrowing money and—”

  “I have some exciting news,” Martha interrupted.

  “News?” said Amalia.

  “Sigmund was nominated for ausserordentlicher Professor!”

  Minna laid down her fork. “He was? When? Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “I’m sure he assumed I would tell you, my dear,” Martha said, looking at her sister with the slightest hint of a smile. Minna, at a loss for words, poured herself another glass of wine and nibbled weakly at her dinner. When dessert was served, she pushed away the cream-filled torte.

  “Aren’t you going to eat your sweet?” Martha asked.

  “You have it,” Minna said, sliding the plate toward her sister.

  “Well, it’s a shame to waste it,” Martha said, forking the creamy lumps into her mouth.

  • • •

  When they returned home, Minna went directly to her room, exhausted and baffled. How could he not have told her? Something so momentous, so important to him. She lay down on the bed, sinking her head into the pillow. She needed to rest. When she awoke, it was dark and she realized she had slept for hours. At one point, the maid stuck her head in the room and Minna vaguely remembered telling her, “Go away! I’m sick.” After that she was left alone.

  When she was finally able to drag herself out of bed, she filled the tub and sank into the warm water, thinking that this was the arsenic hour downstairs, the time when the children required the most attention. They were tired and cranky, needing help with their studies, then baths and supper—sniping at each other, vying for her attention, and then scrambling to the table, hungry as little piglets. She dried herself slowly by the fire, then climbed back into bed. She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t leaving her room.

  Sigmund had been so aloof and dismissive these past few weeks it had been torturous. How strange to get the silent treatment from the self-proclaimed king of the talking cure. Several times she had swallowed her pride and tried to approach him, but he was impersonal and often closed himself up for days at a time either with Fliess or alone. She rationalized that he was under a lot of pressure with his dream book deadline. He was now working on it full-time, and it was all entangled with his self-analysis, the Oedipus complex, and his theories on the id, ego, and superego.

  But even so, the distress of his cold shoulder was constant. She woke up with it and carried it around with her even when she was busy with the children. It took away her appetite and her ability to appreciate anything. Sometimes she would feel it throbbing in her neck and traveling down her arm. Other times, she clenched her teeth so hard she gave herself a migraine. Even reading was no respite. It could be her imagination, but more often than not, she worried that perhaps he was tiring of her.

  The only relief was to deaden the brain with gin. What the hell, Martha was addicted to laudanum and Sigmund was addicted to nicotine and cocaine.

  She put on her nightdress, opened the windows, and inhaled the fresh air. The sky had turned from silvery lilac to a darker shade of purple and then black. She pulled the bottle of gin from under her bed and poured herself a large shot and then another . . . and another until she felt something stir inside her akin to a small firestorm. What was she doing, sitting around waiting for him to summon her? What happened to her backbone and resolve? Did he think she would take this sort of treatment forever? No one in her right mind would put up with this behavior. She thought about it for a moment. Well, then, if he wasn’t so inclined to talk to her, she would talk to him.

  She threw on her robe, thought better of it, changed into a skirt and blouse, and combed her hair. Then she rinsed out her mouth—her breath still reeked of booze. Just thinking about the confrontation filled her with exhilaration. She marched out the door and down the stairs.

  The door to Freud’s study was ajar, and Minna entered without knocking. She found him at his desk, his elbow leaning on a pile of papers. The usual haze of smoke clouded the air and the ashtrays were spilling over with snubbed-out cigars.

  He looked up, startled.

  “Minna?” His face was flushed and sweating and he had deep, puffy circles around his eyes. She hesitated.

  “Are you unwell?”

  “I’m afraid I have a problem with a patient. . . .” he said. There was a pause as he looked up at her. “I think Wilhelm has caused serious injury.”

  “What happened?” She wasn’t surprised that that lunatic Fliess had finally made a grave error.

  The patient’s name was Emma Eckstein. Minna knew that she was the daughter of a socially prominent family in Vienna. Freud told her that the young woman had originally come to him seeking help for mild depression and stomach ailments. He diagnosed her as having symptoms related to mild hysteria, and then consulted with Fliess. The complications arose when Fliess determined that all her suffering was nasal related, and he proceeded to perform a long and disfiguring operation that removed a chunk of her nose.

  “I blame myself for allowing him to operate on her. After Wilhelm went back to Berlin, the young woman’s family contacted me, concerned that she was still in severe discomfort. By the time I examined her, pus and blood were oozing through the binding and there was a putrid smell emanating from the infected wound. I was fearful rot had set in.”

  “Good God,” Minna said, somehow taking perverse pleasure, not in the girl’s pain, but in Fliess’s ineptitude.

  “I immediately called in a specialist. He took one look at the girl and reopened the incision. And do you know what he found?”

  “What?” Minna asked, leaning in toward him.

  “Long threads in her nasal cavity from a wad of gauze that had been left inside the wound. The surgeon told me it was a dirty business to clean up the bloody mess and that Wilhelm had gone against all orthodox practice—he might have killed her.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Minna said, relishing Fliess’s comeuppance. The man wa
s a moron, and Sigmund had to see it.

  “What a disaster. I’m even having nightmares about the poor girl. Sit down, I want you to hear this,” he said, his formal, impersonal demeanor gone.

  Minna obeyed, sitting down at the end of the sofa, her eyes fixed on his face. She had been teetering on the edge of his life, and now she was his confidante once again.

  “In my dream, I’m at a party in a large hall. One of the guests is a woman named Irma, who is obviously Emma. I take her aside to scold her for not following my medical advice. She argues that she’s still in pain and it’s more severe than ever, and I worry that perhaps I overlooked something. At that point, I examine her throat and it’s covered in grayish scabs. Many of my colleagues are at the party, including Breuer and the children’s pediatrician, Oskar Rie, who, it turns out, had actually given the young woman a dirty injection of trimethylamine. In my dream, the only one of my friends who is helpful is Dr. Fliess, and he assures me that it’s not my fault.”

  Minna didn’t say anything at first. It was obvious Sigmund was trying to vindicate his beloved Fliess and reassure himself that neither he nor Fliess had done anything wrong. But his insistence that Fliess was not at fault, even in a dream, bewildered her.

  “I think this is all Wilhelm’s fault,” Minna argued. “And, frankly, I can’t understand why you don’t see it. The man left gauze in the wound and then sewed it up.”

  “That’s not entirely fair,” Sigmund countered. “I should have never urged Wilhelm to perform the operation here in Vienna, where he couldn’t follow up.”

  Minna didn’t feel like arguing. Sooner or later, Sigmund would see that Fliess was incompetent. She continued to watch him pace the room and listened as he analyzed his dream. It was clear the whole experience had shocked him. In view of all of this, her complaints seemed unimportant at the moment. And, in any event, here he was, taking her back into his confidence, and wasn’t that what she wanted, after all?

  37

  Minna slept well that night. The Fliess fiasco had been a blessing in disguise. Or so she thought. Now that the man’s reputation was tarnished, Minna assumed that she would return to her former position of prominence as Freud’s friend, lover . . . even his muse.

  In fact, the opposite occurred. In the next few weeks, Freud returned to his brusque manner and brutal schedule. He brushed silently by her in the hallway and made no effort to come home for meals or engage in any conversation. But the worst was, except for discouraging glances, he had stopped looking at her.

  Somewhere, in the midst of all this, it was slowly dawning on Minna that the more upset she got about her banishment, the more cheerful Martha became. In fact, Martha went about her duties and social schedule with a kind of renewed energy, bright-eyed, independent, and, oddly, optimistic. Martha had changed into the “happy” wife, and now Minna found herself suddenly recast as the one who must somehow carry on.

  “Minna, dear. It’s such a gorgeous day. I think I’ll go down to the Tandelmarkt and stop at the florist afterward. The mums are so lovely this time of year, don’t you think?” Martha said, flitting about the room.

  “They’re quite expensive,” Minna said, not so subtly reminding her of Sigmund’s feelings about wasting money on flowers.

  “Heavens. Stop worrying. Things aren’t that desperate. Would you mind running to the butcher for me? I had him put aside a nice rump roast for the Rindfleisch, and while you’re out, pick up the cheeses and the bread.”

  Minna hardly relished the thought of more errands, but she resolutely grabbed a stray shawl from the front closet and left. She didn’t bother with her hair or her face. It was just the market. She made the rounds of the various merchants, thinking that it was nice to get out, but she didn’t seem to have much energy.

  On the way home, her mood lifted with the clouds, and she noticed that the church spires in the distance were haloed in brilliant light. She decided to prolong the walk, despite her heavy load of marketing, and ventured down a path through the Prater leading to her neighborhood. It was then that she spotted Sigmund, strolling with a fashionably dressed woman, wrapped in an ermine cape and carrying a silk parasol. The couple was deep in conversation, heads bowed, and at one point, she lightly brushed a leaf from his shoulder and rested her hand there for a moment.

  Minna stopped, watching in fascination, as she heard him chuckle at something his companion said. The woman trilled back an inaudible reply. They advanced slowly, while Minna struggled to keep her composure. Then she adjusted the packages in her arms and cast a backward glance to see if there was anywhere she could escape where she wouldn’t be noticed.

  “Why, Minna,” he said, spotting her, his voice chilly yet cordial. “I see you’ve done the shopping.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause as he waited for Minna to say something, but she could think of nothing as she stood frozen on the path. His companion smiled brightly, and Minna noticed with dismay her beautifully flushed cheeks, high forehead, voluptuous figure, and perfect white teeth. Her hair was immaculately groomed, Grecian style, with soft curls framing her face. She was not young, but still striking.

  “Are you with the Freud household, my dear?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Minna said, straightening her thin woolen shawl as she waited for Sigmund to introduce them, but he did not. She stood there awkwardly, like a girl with no names on her dance card.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?” the woman added.

  Minna nodded, her hands nervously clutching her purchases, trying not to stumble into some kind of low comedy exit.

  “We’ll see you at home, then,” Sigmund said as he took the woman’s arm and they proceeded in the opposite direction.

  Who was she? Minna thought, as she did her best to keep walking, her head held high. But by the time she reached the apartment, she was shaking with indignation. Once again, he had treated her like the help. As if no introductions were necessary. Who the devil was she?

  The house was quiet when Minna returned. The children were with their governess and Martin was in school, so Minna decided to put the groceries in the kitchen and then go back out. She went upstairs to quickly address her frazzled appearance, dabbing her face with a bit of powder and combing her hair. Of one thing she was certain: she didn’t want to be here when Sigmund and that woman returned.

  She didn’t quite make it. As she walked back into the vestibule, she sensed the distinct aroma of expensive perfume mixed with cigar smoke. She couldn’t help herself . . . she followed the scent down to the study.

  Minna stood in the doorway, holding her coat and hat. The woman was seated on the couch, and the maid was serving her from Martha’s well-polished silver tea service. Sigmund was standing in front of her, holding his newest antiquity. When was the last time anyone had visited him in his study at this hour? And she had never seen him take tea.

  “It’s my magical amulet. The ancient Egyptians believed the owner of this was supposedly endowed with supernatural powers,” he said, holding it up to the light so that she could see the sun glinting off the bronze.

  What does he do—rehearse this? Minna thought. It’s exactly the same thing he told her. But without the tea and sugared biscuits.

  The woman was tilting her head back, gazing up at him, holding the cup delicately to her lips, obviously captivated. Her skirt was intricately ruched and pleated, and her gloves edged with pearls. Minna hadn’t noticed the details before, all of which added up to an aristocratic presence.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it? My dealer moved heaven and earth to get it.”

  Minna could stand it no more. Feigning innocence, she stepped into the room under a pretext she had not yet invented. Sigmund looked over at her with what could only be called a pained expression.

  “We meet again,” Minna said, ignoring his reaction. “I’m Minna Bernays. Martha’s sister.”

  Frau Andreas-Salomé r
egarded Minna with large sympathetic eyes, visibly surprised.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t realize you were family.”

  There was an awkward moment as Minna waited for Sigmund to say something, but he stood there, his eyes fixed on hers, in no way welcoming. The woman broke the stalemate.

  “I’m Lou Andreas-Salomé,” she said, moving over slightly on the couch. “Won’t you join us? Sigmund was just showing me his collection.”

  “I’ve seen it before,” Minna said coolly. “In any event, thank you, but I’m on my way out.”

  What did she expect? At least a semblance of cordiality from him? Of course, she did.

  She went out the door, weighed down by the revelation: There was another woman in his life, and it wasn’t her sister.

  • • •

  As she headed down the bright, airy Ringstrasse, passing grand residences with gated courtyards, she wiped her forehead and felt her pulse oddly racing. Perhaps she was a bit faint from the sun. Or maybe it was anger. Or the humiliation of it all. She desperately needed sleep, and her eyes were stinging. She had sat up the night before with Sophie, who had contracted a mild case of the stomach flu, and now she herself had an uneasiness of the stomach, even though she was hungry. She could have caught Sophie’s bug. In addition, she was precariously close to crying. Definitely not in her character.

  Minna sought refuge, entering the nearest café, sitting down at a small marble table, and fanning her cold, clammy skin with her hat. She took off her woolen jacket and hung it on the back of her chair and then loosened the waistband of her skirt, unbuttoning a few of the tightest top buttons. She ordered her favorite coffee, a rich Turkish brew topped with sugar and sweet whipped cream, as she nibbled on some bread and cheese, trying to quiet her growling, churning stomach.

  The café was crowded with lunchtime shoppers, military officers in their brightly colored uniforms, and students absorbed in a wide variety of newspapers. In one corner, three young men and a pretty girl were huddled together, tilting back on their beech-wood chairs. They whiled away the day, drinking, smoking, seemingly unscathed by life’s complications. The young girl, who had been listening to the others, suddenly burst into laughter, her eyes and cheeks glowing. Minna settled herself at her table, dabbing the back of her damp neck with her napkin, and tried to think, but she felt out of context, helpless.