Freud's Mistress Read online

“I won’t. My mind is made up,” Minna said, summoning up as much grace as she could manage.

  • • •

  Minna spent the next few days planning her trip to America. She wrote her brother, asking him to send her a ticket, without explaining why. He had been urging her to visit for the past several years and he wouldn’t ask a lot of questions. She made a list of the things that she would have to do before the trip. Even though she’d like to just disappear, there were so many details that must be dealt with first. She must apply for the necessary papers. God willing, that wouldn’t take too long. Her brother had mentioned something about an expedited process. She thought about her travel trunk still sitting in the Freuds’ storage closet. And her room full of belongings. She would, at some point, have to go back there to pick them up, maybe she’d schedule it when Sigmund was at class. In any event, she’d never forgive herself if she didn’t say good-bye to the children.

  She fell asleep that night with a premonition that something was wrong. Maybe it was just the hastily thrown-together plans of a woman in trouble. Was she taking into account all the complications that might arise? She couldn’t possibly anticipate them all.

  • • •

  She woke up chilled, her heart beating quickly, the residual effects, she thought, of a nightmare. She could hardly catch her breath, as she felt a dull ache in her lower back and abdomen descending to her hips and thighs, passing around to her legs.

  She pulled the cord near her bed, ringing for the attendant, who suggested hot compresses and tea.

  “These are probably just false pains,” she told Minna. “We see it all the time. They’ll last for some hours. Wearisome, but not harmful.”

  She placed a small horsehair cushion under Minna’s knees, drew the woolen curtains aside, and opened the bedroom windows. Then she chatted on, blaming Minna’s discomfort on fatigue, mental excitement, or perhaps a disturbed condition of the bowel, for which she recommended a tablespoon of castor oil and a warmed-over pint of barley water.

  “Some fresh air, a bit of slumber, and by and by you’ll feel better.”

  A few hours later, Minna awoke to tremors so violent as to shake the bed. Severe cramps began, and nausea coursed through her body. She pressed her hand on her back in an attempt to stop the shooting pains as she made her way to the commode. The last thing she thought of as she fell to the ground and lapsed into unconsciousness was that she hoped there would be no damage to the child.

  43

  How long have you been here?” Minna asked.

  “I don’t know. A few hours,” Justine said, rising from her chair. She laid aside her needlework, slipped her stocking-feet into her satin pumps, and walked through the darkening room to Minna’s bedside table. Her thick blond hair was piled up with pins, and her usual lighthearted demeanor was more disciplined now, her green eyes fixed on her task. She fumbled with the candle and relit it, then covered up Minna’s arms, which were jutting out of the covers. Minna was told that five days had gone by and she had spent them sleeping, enveloped in a sickening combination of medication and misery.

  “You look better. Your color is back.”

  Minna stared at her, then realized through her narcotic haze why she was in bed. She rose on her elbows and tried to focus. The pain of losing the child hit her as powerfully as if it had just happened.

  Justine began fussing with the metal bed warmer, placing it under the covers and adjusting the blankets around it. Then she brushed Minna’s hair off her face. She was about to tell her that it was time she got out of bed, but Minna looked so fragile lying there, her eyes ringed with dark circles, that she decided to wait.

  “I just finished reading Jane Eyre,” Justine said, trying to lighten the mood. “Didn’t think it was quite as good as—”

  “I don’t want to talk about books,” Minna said, her voice trailing off. They sat there for a few minutes half facing each other, not saying anything.

  “Minna, you have to pull yourself out of this. . . .”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  “You can’t stay here forever.”

  “As if I’d want to . . . I was moving to America, you know. I had it all planned.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  “I did?”

  “Twice.”

  “Must be the medication. Hand me a cigarette, will you?”

  “It’s not allowed,” she said with a slight smile as she pulled a tin of Egyptian cigarettes from the pocket of her dress. She gave Minna one, lit it for her, and watched as she inhaled deeply.

  “It wouldn’t have worked,” Justine said.

  “What?”

  “America. It’s not what you think it is. New York and Boston are brutal. They don’t like foreigners, divorcées, bohemians. A woman in your position ends up with a ragtag life . . . the child a constant heartache.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. I’ve been around. I’ve heard stories. Urban squalor, tenements, people with strange accents and appalling diets, gangs of vigilantes, and bodies dumped in the Hudson like dead fish.”

  “I’d go west, then.”

  “And who do you think you’re going to meet out there besides savages and farmers? Scratching out a living on some parched piece of earth on a godforsaken prairie . . .”

  “Are you finished?”

  “Not quite . . .” she said brightly, relishing the picture she was painting. “Wondering if you and the child would make it through the winter without dying from typhus or consumption or the pox—vultures picking at your bones.”

  “Well, that was comforting,” Minna said, amused in spite of herself. Justine’s descriptions were elaborate to the point of being comical.

  “I try,” she said, adjusting the pins in her hair.

  “A bit theatrical.”

  “Listen, I talked to your doctor this morning. I suggested that since your miscarriage was precipitated by his rough prenatal exam, you certainly shouldn’t be charged for your stay here.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Oh, yes, I did. He denied it, of course. But I checked later at the desk and they said that Dr. Freud will be given a full refund.”

  “Sigmund will be happy.”

  “I’m sure he will. In my experience, I’ve found that most doctors are . . .” She hesitated, and raised her eyebrows—“How to say this politely . . . ? Cheap bastards.”

  They heard a loud, rattling cough as a patient walked by Minna’s half-opened door.

  “Jesus! These people. You’d think they’d have the decency to cover their mouth,” Justine said, slamming the door shut.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Minna said after a long silence.

  “If it were me, I’d go home,” Justine said.

  Home, Minna thought. Just where was that? Her mother’s house? God forbid. Her sister’s? How could she go back there after all that had happened?

  “Although,” Justine added, lighting a cigarette, “I’m not the ideal person to give advice.”

  Minna sat up, slowly moved her legs over the side of the bed, and put on her dressing gown. She ignored the slight dizziness as she walked out on the balcony and carefully settled herself in a chair, watching the purple light spread across the horizon.

  Justine threw a wool shawl over Minna’s shoulders and sat down next to her.

  “I’m leaving in the morning,” Justine said. “I was supposed to be in Vienna a few days ago, but I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Her friend’s voice was low and soothing. Minna leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She felt a wash of emotion but couldn’t risk the embarrassment of tears.

  “I don’t deceive myself that we’ll see each other again. . . .” Justine said softly.

  Minna took her hand for a moment and pressed it to her cheek,
then held it in her lap. The two women sat in silence, silhouetted by the fading light.

  “Do you want me to call the nurse?” Justine said.

  “No.”

  “Would you like me to order dinner from downstairs?”

  “No.”

  “Shall we get really drunk tonight?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Justine sat back in her chair and blew wavering rings of smoke into the air.

  “Good. I would, too.”

  44

  Vienna, November 1896

  Dear Minna,

  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we buried Jakob yesterday, following yet another severe pulmonary edema. Even though we knew this was inevitable, Sigmund is inconsolable. My dear Minna, he is not himself. He sits alone in his study, staring at the walls, and wanders the apartment, quite uprooted. I found him the other day in the parlor, staring into space. And he seems to have no interest in his practice or in his research.

  Yesterday, he learned that a colleague at the university declined him as a consultant, telling the others that Sigmund could not be taken seriously. Surely another crushing setback for him. Now, you know what a fit he usually has when something like this happens. But he just looked up at me and shrugged. He seems to be doing nothing but reading about Bismarck, who, he tells me, was born on the exact same day as Jakob.

  My dear Minna, I must also tell you that I have to leave the children and go to Hamburg. Mother is ill and has written a flurry of letters begging me to care for her. So unless you would rather take care of her (and I know the answer to that), I told her that I would come, and then, since Sigmund tells me you’re much improved, it’s only fair that you come here to care for the children.

  I looked up the schedule for the Brenner line of the Murano central rail and made a reservation for you on the four o’clock train Thursday. If I can, I’ll meet you.

  I wish my news were better. But it is what it is. I’ll be happy when life is back to normal and we’re all together again.

  Your loving sister,

  Martha

  Minna couldn’t help but note her sister’s predictable division of labor. Martha’s tone was affectionate but clear that Minna would be shirking an imperative duty toward the family should she say no.

  Here was the solution. Handed to her on a silver platter. If only it were that simple. Yes, she would be fulfilling an obligation, but also returning to Freud. Her sister had offered her a home once and she had ruined it. This time, she would not make the same mistakes.

  45

  It was midafternoon when Minna stepped off the train at Wien Westbahnhof and found Martha waiting for her on the crowded platform. Her sister was wrapped in a dark red cloak, her hair, as usual, pulled tight in a small, neat bun, and she brightened when she spotted Minna through the burst of billowing steam.

  “Martha. What an unexpected sight,” Minna said, her voice barely heard above the racket of the passing porters hauling suitcases and the surge of travelers rushing by. She tipped the porter walking beside her and took her small, worn valise from his hand.

  “You needn’t have come—so much trouble for you. I could have taken the omnibus.”

  A gust of wind hit them, carrying the acrid smell of smoke and exhaust, and Minna shivered in her light serge jacket and walking skirt.

  “I wanted to see you before I went to Mother’s,” Martha said, kissing Minna on both cheeks and picking up her bag. “My goodness, this is heavy. You shouldn’t be lifting, should you? I’m on the five o’clock to Hamburg, so there isn’t much time. How are you, my dear? Your lungs are clear?”

  “Don’t worry, Martha. I’m doing fine.”

  “I can see that. I have just enough time for a coffee.”

  Martha took her sister’s arm and steered her through the terminal, toward a café near the entrance. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the long, vaulted hallway, and Minna shielded her eyes from the glare. She must have left her hat on the train.

  The journey from Meran had been long and tedious, and she hadn’t slept a bit. There had been wild jolts of train cars latching and unlatching at station stops, and she had hardly looked at the landscape skimming past the windows.

  She had boarded the first train at the ungodly hour of six and was looking forward to seeing the children, exchanging a few pleasantries, pleading exhaustion, and going straight to bed. But Martha was so attentive, she could hardly show any reticence. Still, she found herself feeling ambushed as Martha chatted on about Emmeline’s condition (beastly) and then launched into a detailed schedule of the household events for the next few weeks.

  This was not at all what she had expected. She thought Martha would be home a few days before she had to face him alone. Good God. She’d have to deal with him tonight. What could she say? That she had decided to have the baby. That she had planned to leave him, after all. That the miscarriage had ended everything.

  “Martha, must you leave today? Why don’t you wait at least until I settle in? Mother’s waited this long, she can wait a few more days.”

  “That’s rather harsh, my dear. Especially considering her condition. In any event, it’s all arranged. I have my ticket and I’m going.”

  It was no use trying to convince her sister otherwise. Martha never changed her plans unless someone was at death’s door. They sat down in the café next to a group of fashionable women in big hats and ordered Kaffee mit Schlag. Then Martha called the waiter back and added two servings of strudel.

  “None for me,” Minna said. “I ate on the train.” The thought of warmed-over oozing strudel made her stomach turn.

  “Don’t be silly. Bring two strudels,” she repeated to the waiter. “You look thin. You are up to this, aren’t you?” Martha said, examining Minna’s face. “You can handle things until I get back?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “I’ve written everything down and put the list in your room. Sophie now goes to the speech therapist on Tuesdays instead of Thursdays. Mathilde’s tutor comes every afternoon at four. Martin will beg to go skating, but don’t let him.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s not that complicated.”

  “I’m sure . . . but if you’re still feeling weak, I can get Edna to bring in her sister. Shall I do that? I don’t want this to be a strain.”

  “No. I don’t want Edna’s sister. Stop worrying.”

  “Well, you look tired,” Martha said.

  They sat in silence for a few moments while the waiter served the coffee and strudel. Minna studied her piece of cake, pushing it around with her fork.

  “You haven’t asked about Sigmund. . . .” Martha said, carefully bringing up the subject they had danced around for the past half hour.

  “How is he?” Minna asked softly, not looking up.

  “He’s still in a state, if can you believe it. And there’s nothing to distract him. Frau Andreas-Salomé flew the coop last week, and the parting was not amicable.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? My sentiments exactly,” Martha said, with a slight smile. “The woman showed up hysterical, and I don’t mean this clinically. There were actual tears. And of course, Sigi was nowhere to be found, so I had to deal with her.”

  “You showed her the door.”

  “In a very kind way.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Their eyes met for a moment.

  “Minna,” Martha said, in a more serious tone, “my worry is that he’s so low right now. He’ll lure you down to his study again, and you’re simply not up to it. Six children. It’s a difficult schedule even if you were well and rested. I hope you’ll temper your time with him, for your own sake.”

  “But, Martha, I’m not coming back with the intention of—”

  “Of course not,” Martha interrupted, obviously not willing to hear mor
e, “but when he gets his momentum back, and of course he will, he’s likely to behave the same way he always has. . . . Do you understand me?”

  No one could fail to understand her. The gravity in her tone was palpable. Minna nodded.

  “I’ve seen your disappointment when he ignores you. You must try to adopt a bit of my philosophy when it comes to Sigmund. Enjoy him when he’s civilized; pay no attention when he’s a lout. What other choice do we have?”

  Minna was speechless. And completely at a loss as to whether Martha knew. At the very least, she was acknowledging Minna’s true feelings, but as Sigmund’s lover? Or as simply another casualty in a long line of confidantes who were tossed aside? Minna appraised her sister, hoping for some insight, but Martha’s face was unreadable, her color did not change. Her unique talent had always been to maintain a kind of infallible self-sufficiency of the soul, a daunting and enviable trait. She could maintain her even keel quite efficiently, despite the lacerating facts, and had, without saying it, invited her sister to do the same.

  “Martha, I’ll take care of things while you’re gone, but I’m only staying a few weeks.”

  “I won’t discuss this with you now. You’re not yourself. But I will say that, in general, we shouldn’t let our emotions get the better of us. And, specifically, there’s no reason to give up everything over something so transitory.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Simply that everyone in the house knew Sigmund hurt your feelings. That’s what he does. . . . You must get over it.”

  Minna gazed at her sister’s implacable face. Tears fell on her cheeks and ran down her neck.

  “Hush. Don’t cry. It doesn’t suit you. I’m through talking now. And so are you. We’ve both had our turns.”

  Martha reached her hand across the table toward Minna’s in a gesture of mutual comfort. They embraced before she left for her train, and then Minna sat in the café awhile longer, gazing out the window at the cloudy sky. She felt a pang of loneliness that had not been there before and thought about her sister. She could still hear Martha’s voice filled with passive resilience and acceptance and the promise of something good if they all just carried on, made the best of things, and took care of each other.