Freud's Mistress Read online

  “You see, the title of this piece is Turanga Litia. Two thoughts, really. Turanga and litia. Turanga, that means ‘time.’ And litia, ‘play.’ Time Play. It’s a good deal more involved than that, of course. . . . One could say that . . .” Ignaz said with intensity.

  “One could certainly say that,” Sigmund interrupted, in a mocking tone. “Could you hand me that newspaper?”

  It was the two men’s habit to meet most afternoons, with Martha and Minna frequently joining them. They all had just enough money to buy one coffee each, and they nursed it for hours. Martha would mostly listen, but Minna felt no such reticence as they talked of poetry, the meaning of life, recitations of Goethe and Shakespeare, politics, and the ever-growing wave of anti-Semitism in Vienna.

  On one occasion, they were arguing about Darwin’s theories, the way students often did when trying to impress one another. Freud had loaned Minna his prized copy of On the Origin of Species, which Ignaz had already read and which Martha had no interest in whatsoever.

  “Men from monkeys. Ridiculous!” Ignaz said. Poor Ignaz.

  “How completely shortsighted! Do you also believe the world is flat?” Minna challenged.

  “You didn’t realize you were about to marry Kate,” Freud said, sitting back in that exact same way he was now and folding his arms with an ironic smile.

  “Kate?” Martha asked Minna.

  “Yes. Your beloved Sigmund has just called me a shrew.”

  “No offense intended, my dear,” Sigmund responded. “You know how fond I am of that particular shrew, her disagreeable demeanor notwithstanding.”

  “No offense taken,” Minna said, secretly enjoying being compared to the heroine.

  “I find that character so foul-tempered and sharp-tongued,” Ignaz had said.

  “Ah, but that’s her great charm,” Freud replied, and then recited long passages from The Taming of the Shrew. She could still see him as he was in the café, challenging everyone, his head raised, chin thrust forward as though his genius had dared be questioned. Even then he was impatient, filled with random, eccentric thoughts, and had an air of being the smartest person in the room. Initially, Minna would sit back and let him dominate the conversation. But then he would look for her reaction, and the two of them would end up in a dialogue of their own.

  They had, in fact, for years shared a lively correspondence. It began, oddly enough, shortly after he and Martha got married. Initially, it was all about books. As a child, growing up with six sisters and an overbearing mother, Sigmund read to escape his poverty and his chaotic home life. And Minna delighted in having someone who considered her an intellectual as opposed to a strange duck.

  She remembered their early letters, discussing the Romantic Lake District poets, Wordsworth and Coleridge. The classic thinkers were next. He would write about Homer and Dante, flaunting his mastery of Greek and Latin. She would have her own opinions, reading the German translations and questioning his interpretations. They both loved Dickens and the Russian writers Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. Also Shakespeare, whom, he boasted, he began reading at the age of eight.

  He was passionate about the poets Schiller and Goethe, quoting long passages from both. And fascinated with the ancient worlds, extinct civilizations, gods, religion, and myths, including the story he kept going back to, Oedipus the King, the Sophocles play that he had translated from the Greek for his final examination at the gymnasium. Sprinkled in between, he’d complain about his practice, his colleagues, the children’s constant ailments, and his inability to stop smoking. Although his letters in that regard were overwrought and filled with drama and self-pity.

  “I gave up smoking again . . . horrible misery of abstinence . . . completely incapable of working . . . life is unbearable. . . .”

  “Your Achilles’ heel,” she’d respond, then ask him about his latest research. He would send her pages detailing his “breakthrough” psychoanalytic techniques, including his theories about hysteria and a treatment called “the talking cure.” He complimented her, telling her that she was a detailed and perceptive reader of his work. She had learned early on to be careful in her responses because he could be pugnacious and took offense easily.

  In the past few years, she had attempted to include Martha in their literary discussions, but to no avail. Sometimes, Minna thought, rather uncharitably, but there you are, Martha had nothing in the way of an observed or even active inner life. She rarely read novels anymore or even the newspaper, and she still felt Shakespeare, in translation, was impossible to decipher. Except for the sonnets, which she liked. Perhaps a reminder of her early courtship, during their four-year engagement, when Freud would send them to her on a regular basis. In those days, there were at least a few authors she favored, especially Dickens, but all that seemed to fade after the children.

  Martha entered from the parlor, carrying a carafe of red wine, and stopped when she noticed the boys had left the table and were wedged behind the sofa, fighting over what looked like a little toy soldier.

  “Oliver, Martin, back to the table! Sigmund, where is the claret that was on the top shelf, you remember, the one the patient gave you who couldn’t pay? All I could find was this vin ordinaire.”

  He shrugged, seemingly focused on his small statuette. The figurine’s left arm was raised to hold a spear (now missing) and she was wearing a breastplate embossed with the Medusa’s head. It was Sigmund’s peculiar habit to bring one of his favorite antiquities to the dinner table, leaving the silent statue standing in front of him, like an imaginary friend. Thank goodness he didn’t converse with it, Minna thought.

  “First century?” Minna asked.

  “Second century, Rome. Athena, goddess of wisdom and war,” he replied.

  “Roman, not Greek?”

  “Very good. After a Greek original, fifth century, B.C.,” he said, leaning to the side as Martha stood between the two of them and poured Minna a glass of wine.

  “Aunt Minna?” asked Oliver. “Would you like to hear what I learned today?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Oliver plunged into a detailed description of the geography of the Danube River, including all the countries it flowed through.

  “The Blue Danube, which, by the way, isn’t really blue. Muddy yellow is more like it. It’s the longest river in Europe after the Volga, two thousand eight hundred fifty kilometers. It starts in the Black Forest and then flows east through Germany, the Hapsburg Empire, Slovakia, Romania, and Bulgaria.”

  “Very impressive, Oliver,” Minna said, giving the precocious child free rein to continue in what became a relentless stream of names and numbers.

  Minna listened attentively as Oliver then listed the cities, wondering where he might be going with all this. At some point during his recitation, the others at the table affected disinterest, as Minna grew more and more weirdly fascinated by the scene unfolding before her. Something told her there was no getting to the end with Oliver.

  “There are those who think he ought to be shot,” his brother Martin piped up cheerfully at one point. “He can really get on your nerves.”

  Oliver, ignoring Martin, continued his ardent and detailed dissertation, blithely oblivious, blurring the line between exhaustive and excessive. Meanwhile, glaciers were plunging into the sea and tree trunks grew another ring. Finally, Martha interrupted.

  “I had quite a day with one of our domestics,” she said. “You remember Frau Josefine’s sister? The dark-haired one? She was filling in today, and first thing dropped one of our good crystal goblets. And never mind her dusting. So inefficient, I had to send the chambermaid back through. A complete disaster. My God, you don’t have to be a genius to know that a dirty house breeds diseases: cholera, typhoid, diphtheria. Isn’t that right, Minna?”

  Minna nodded politely with a barely perceptible grimace, dreading what was coming next.

  “Oh, yes,” Martha continu
ed, “household dust contains mud from the streets, horse manure, fish entrails, bedbugs, decaying animals, debris from dustbins, and—don’t listen, Sophie—vermin.”

  Martha needn’t have worried. No one was listening except Minna. No one ever listened when she went on and on about dirt. Minna felt obligated to show some interest, but it was exasperating, not to mention embarrassing. Oliver was still squabbling with Martin and the girls had their heads together, chattering over some secret something under the table. Freud glanced at Minna, his eyes flickering, revealing a thinly veiled annoyance, as the serving maid delivered the Viennese stew along with Tyrolean potato balls and cabbage.

  “Sigmund, I gather things are going well with your practice?” Minna ventured, trying to change the subject.

  “Actually, quite well. Although one can always use more patients. . . .”

  “And the university? Martha tells me the lecture halls are filled. Would Herr Professor Freud mind if I listened in sometime?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. He’s not a professor. . . .” Martha said.

  “Thank you, Martha. Thank you for reminding everyone,” Freud said, glowering at his wife.

  Oh, God, Minna thought. Why did she bring this up? She knew this was a sensitive subject. For the past ten years, Freud had held the title of Privatdozent at the University of Vienna—an unpaid lecturer in neurology—not professor. He had been nominated several times, but had been denied by the Ministry of Education and, unlike his peers, he had stubbornly refused to use political connections, known as Protektion, to help his promotion. As a result, year after year, he watched as his colleagues were promoted and he remained relegated to a junior position.

  “He was on the list,” Martha added. “With his seniority, he should have been next.”

  “That’s right. Let’s just regurgitate the whole story. I was passed over two years ago, passed over last year, and then, oh, yes, passed over again. Anything else you’d like to add, Martha?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” she went on, seemingly oblivious to Sigmund’s growing anger. “Perhaps if you tried harder to be more cordial . . .” Martha said, refusing to let the subject die.

  “Are you saying it’s because of my lack of manners?”

  “It’s not what I’m saying.”

  “So who is saying it? Who would say such a thing?”

  “People.”

  “Oh, people, is it?” he sneered, slamming down his fork and pushing his chair back from the table. “Which people? The people from the hospital? From the university? Or perhaps your little sewing circle?

  “Is there nothing you can do?” Minna asked, trying in vain to neutralize the heated conversation.

  “Of course there’s something he might do. He might temper his conduct.”

  Minna shot Martha a look. Good God, doesn’t she know when to stop? Even Oliver knew when to keep his mouth shut. The rest of the children were deadly quiet.

  “Really, Martha. Extraordinary thing to say. Personalities have nothing to do with it. It’s my theories they don’t like. In fact, all my research is completely wasted on them. Sooner or later they’ll have to recognize the scientific merit of my work. . . . But for now . . . who knows . . . they’re all anti-Semitic anyway.”

  “There it is. You see, we mustn’t blame ourselves, because everyone’s anti-Semitic. That’s his argument for everything,” Martha said, turning to him. “There are things you could do to smooth your way. . . .”

  “Such as . . . ?”

  “You might . . . pay them a call . . . or send them flowers.”

  “This is what you’re proposing? I’ll be sure to do that, my dear. I’ll send them all flowers. What a brilliant solution!” he said, erupting with angry laughter.

  “You see,” he added, turning to Minna as if they were the only two people in the room, “that’s why I don’t talk about my work with her.”

  A moment passed. Martha let out a long, melodramatic sigh, which Minna knew from childhood meant that her sister was resigned, but not defeated. Then she picked up a linen dishrag and small jug of boiling hot water that she always kept near her plate and began vigorously swabbing a bit of beef gravy that had dripped off Sophie’s fork and onto the tablecloth. Minna watched in silence as Martha scrubbed the white linen. It was time to change the subject for it was clear this war would not be resolved.

  “Martha,” Minna asked, feigning a lighthearted air, “didn’t you mention that Martin had written a poem?”

  “Oh, yes,” Martha said, setting down the cloth and rubbing her shoulder as if in pain. “Martin, why don’t you read your poem now?”

  Martin pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, rose ceremoniously from his seat, and faced Minna in what was obviously a rehearsed “welcome ceremony.”

  “It’s called ‘The Seduction of a Goose by a Fox,’” he recited.

  “Let’s see.” Oliver smirked, snatching the paper from Martin’s hand. “God! Your spelling is atrocious. How could you spell beasts wrong?”

  Oliver sprang from his chair, as Martin bolted up after him, lunging frantically for the paper. The boys tore around the table until Oliver, equal parts thrilled and amused, crumpled the poem in a wad and threw it across the room. Minna noticed Martin’s cheeks burning in humiliation. He and Oliver had always been at odds. When Ernst was around, Oliver kept to himself. Oliver, the brainy outcast, interested in math and abstract subjects. But now, with the buffer gone, he turned his attention to Martin, instinctively knowing just what drove his brother crazy.

  “That’s enough, boys! Stop it right now!” Martha said, standing up abruptly, holding her left arm, which had begun to shake and was now going limp. She dropped her spoon on the floor and grabbed her shoulder.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Minna asked in alarm.

  “It’s just this disobedient arm.”

  “What are you talking about? When did this start?”

  “Right after Anna was born. My arm sometimes stops working. I’m taking salicyl. Sigmund thinks it’s some kind of writing paralysis, Schreiblähmung.”

  “What’s that?” Minna asked.

  “It’s a motor dysfunction, isn’t it?” Martha asked, turning to Freud.

  “Possibly . . .” he said, indifferently. “Sit down, boys!”

  “And my teeth hurt, too.”

  “Oh, dear,” Minna said, at a loss for words.

  The boys hustled back to their chairs, shoving themselves into the table, Oliver smiling smugly. Freud opened his pocket watch and cleared his throat.

  “I’m afraid I have to leave. I have a patient coming,” he announced.

  “What about the strudel?” Martha asked, still cradling her arm.

  “Perhaps later.”

  He pulled out his chair and touched Minna lightly on the shoulder: “You’re welcome to attend my lecture anytime.”

  “I’d be delighted,” Minna answered, flattered by the invitation. And at that moment, she felt a twinge in her stomach that she could not explain.

  5

  All the Freud children had their peculiarities, and over the next week, Minna learned each and every one. Oliver was a kinetic tangle of energy; Martin, a chafe-cheeked troublemaker; Ernst struggled with his lisp, and little Sophie was a poor eater who couldn’t sleep, even with her nightly concoction of castor oil and laudanum (an opium derivative that Martha seemed to use for every ailment). There was sibling rivalry, tantrums, and the occasional glimmer of gratitude.

  At times, Minna found herself checking off a mental list of who was there and who was gone, and where the dickens were they if they weren’t where they should have been, if, in fact, they should have been there? But then again, Martha was often surprisingly calm, even in situations where someone cracked his head open, jammed his finger in a door, or had a prodigious nosebleed.

  Late one night, S
ophie, barefoot and shivering, tiptoed through the darkened corridors to Minna’s tiny bedroom. Minna hastily shoved a glass of gin and her cigarette case under the bed as Sophie approached.

  “Therth’s a big green monster in my room and whath’s the monthly sickness, Aunt Minna?”

  As Sophie crawled into bed next to her, Minna rubbed her back and read to her from Alice’s Abenteuer im Wunderland about the caterpillar with the magic hookah. The child eventually nodded off, and the next morning, Minna took charge of Sophie’s sleep habits, instituting story time in lieu of laudanum.

  In contrast to the children, who were inescapable and everywhere, Freud was a ghostly presence. His contact with the children was minimal and he barely said “Good morning” or “Good evening” to anyone, including Minna. She would see him at dinner and, occasionally, at four o’clock tea. Other than that, he was solitary and self-absorbed, cloistered at the university, consulting with patients, or secluded in his study.

  Minna had once read that children were either the center of one’s life or they were not. And for Freud, most of the year, they were not. During the school year, the children saw little of him during the day, and most of the nights he stayed in his study, emerging only when they were asleep. Minna could understand this, given the importance and intensity of his work, but in the summer, on their vacations, he became the attentive father, taking them on hikes, mushroom hunts, and boating trips. He joked with them, telling them of his childhood, and read them stories from his favorite books. However, his behavior year-round toward Martha was unsettling. More often than not, his glances revealed his irritation, and Martha, in turn, would lapse into a kind of stylized discourse of her own, rife with nuance. It was a subtle version of survival of the fittest, talon and beak, two birds pecking away at each other and, although Minna hated to admit it, Martha usually started it.