Freud's Mistress Read online

  One afternoon, Freud lingered in the parlor, reading his newspaper. He had removed his shoes and taken a tin of biscuits from the kitchen, which he dispatched with gusto, spilling crumbs all over the carpet. Then he lit a cigar and settled in his favorite chair, dumping the ashes into the upturned biscuit lid.

  “So many ashes, Sigmund. And crumbs,” Martha said, entering the room. “What happened to your patient?”

  “Canceled,” he said, not looking up.

  “And your walk?”

  Freud turned the page of his newspaper, ignoring her. Martha’s shoulders stiffened as she glanced at the window.

  “That new housekeeper left the window open. Again.”

  “Don’t close it. It’s stifling in here,” he said.

  “Of course. I’ll leave it open,” she replied, as she walked to the window and shut it halfway. Then she fetched her workbasket from the stool near the fireplace, pulled up a chair near him, and began to embroider a small linen pillow.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “The newspaper.”

  “Oh,” she said, pausing a moment, waiting for him to elaborate.

  It was obvious he was in one of his moods, giving her the distinct impression that her presence was superfluous. For want of something, anything, to say, she plowed on.

  “Did you hear the Meyers are renting a villa in Florence for the entire month of August?”

  He put down the paper for a moment in exasperation and relit his cigar.

  “And then they’re traveling to—what’s that place in the Balkans? Quite exotic. Is it Marrakech? No. Help me out here, dear. What am I thinking of?” she asked.

  She stood up and began dumping his cigar ashes in the dustbin.

  “Constantinople?” he asked.

  “No. That’s not it,” she answered, now grotesquely attentive, brushing away crumbs at his feet with her handkerchief. “In any event, they’re always going somewhere. Last year they went to Calais. Or was it Biarritz? Are you going to your B’nai B’rith meeting this evening?”

  “No.”

  “Gertrude told me you caused quite a stir at the last one. Her husband mentioned it. Something about your research? Is that why you’re not going tonight?”

  “I’m just buried here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Of course I’ve noticed. I live here, in case you haven’t noticed. I just assumed they were offended by your research. Although I can’t imagine why you’d ever discuss it with them. Oh, dear, what’s that spot on the wall right behind the sofa?”

  He put down his newspaper, regarding her incredulously.

  “The spot behind the sofa,” she repeated.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s no use trying to get it out,” she said. “I think an insect flew in from outside. . . .”

  He took a deep breath and slowly let it out as she stared moodily at her needlework.

  “And the room smells of horse manure.”

  He stood up, slamming the window shut as if it were the guillotine.

  “Is that better?” he asked, his voice laden with reproof.

  “Why, yes, my dear. Thank you,” she replied with a spartan smile.

  Minna couldn’t tell when one of these scenes would start . . . but she knew there were many ways it could end. He could throw her off the bridge, he could stab her, he could cut out her tongue, or he could do what he always did, walk out the door and retreat to his study.

  • • •

  One Saturday, Minna awoke to a remarkable, springlike day which, after weeks of freezing rain, she found irresistible. The neighborhood was full of life. The windows were open in the apartment buildings across the street, and she could hear the sound of passing carriages, the muted gossip of servant girls standing on the pavement, and the whistle of a railway train in the distance. Inside, she heard the housemaids’ endless click of dialogue as they stoked the stoves, brushed the grates, cleaned out the water closet, opened the shutters, and emptied the soot. Every nook and cranny of the house was attended to before breakfast.

  Minna, as usual, decided to check on the baby first. Anna was sleeping in her bassinet, dressed in a milk-white nightgown edged with lace and ribbons. But shortly before dawn, her intermittent cries had turned to rage, and the wailing waxed and waned for what seemed like an eternity. Just as Minna was getting up to tend to her, she heard the nanny’s tread in the hallway and a door open and close. Amazing how a baby’s voice could sound harsh and soothing at the same time.

  The nursery had the requisite whitewashed walls (a sterile environment to ward off infections), and it was sparsely furnished with a threadbare Chinese rug in the center of the room that looked as if it had been beaten to death. Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, Martha’s bible, suggested pounding the baby’s carpet at least once a week, and under her supervision, this little bruised one was taken out daily.

  Minna looked in on Martin next, the only Freud child with his own room. The boy, who was fighting a throat infection, was seated at his desk, smothered in two sweaters and a wool scarf and, when Minna appeared, he shoved a handful of toy soldiers into the drawer. Dirty clothes twisted inside out were strewn on the floor, books with injured spines piled up in a corner, biscuit wrappers and food-smeared dishes littered the bedside table. What a pigsty, Minna thought.

  “How are you feeling?” Minna asked, carefully walking around a pair of ice skates with mud-crusted blades.

  “I’m trying to study,” he said pointedly, waiting for her to leave.

  “I can see that,” Minna said, reaching into the drawer and pulling out the toy soldiers. “French infantry. Very nice. History is so important.”

  “I agree,” Martin said. His eyes were a bit bloodshot, but large and sympathetic.

  “But not more important than arithmetic, which it seems you are failing.”

  “Who said?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Who? Tell me,” the child pressed. “I’m not failing.”

  “Good. That’s good. Carry on, then,” Minna said, picking up his math workbook from the floor and handing it to him. He reluctantly took the book, coughed like a dog, and retired to his bed.

  “I’ll bring you some fresh soup and those biscuits I see you like.”

  As he climbed into bed, Minna noticed the boy had raw knuckles, scabby shins, and a faded black-and-blue mark on his neck. Always something with this child, she thought. A fight a week. She chose to ignore a small hole in the plaster wall, suspiciously shaped like a fist.

  The oldest child, Mathilde, a ten-year-old mini-Martha, was lolling on one of Martha’s best sofas in the parlor, her dirty boots resting on a velvet cushion. As Minna entered the room, she was being quizzed by the governess, Frau Schilling, an older woman with chronic allergies and a persistent wheeze who used purgatives and syrup of poppies with shocking regularity. The woman had arrived early today, a punishment for Mathilde’s refusal to study the past week. All the Freud children were tutored at home, primarily due to Martha’s fear of the spread of childhood diseases.

  “When was the reign of Leopold the First?” the governess drilled, dabbing her watery eyes with a handkerchief.

  “I don’t know,” Mathilde responded, bored to death and fiddling with the fringe on the pillow.

  “From 1657 to 1705,” said Frau Schilling, shuffling her papers with impatience. “And what year did he save Vienna from the Turkish menace?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say he ‘saved Vienna,’” Minna interrupted, pulling over a chair and casually pushing Mathilde’s boots off the cushions. “I know they say Leopold was a great warrior, but the fact of the matter is, he was out of town when the bloody war took place and returned only when it was safe to do so.”

  Mathilde gazed levelly at Minna and planted her feet back on the cushions.r />
  “So where was he?” Mathilde asked.

  “In Linz.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know, maybe visiting his cousin, the count, or one of his several lady friends. Please take your boots off the cushions.”

  Mathilde unlaced her boots, threw them on the floor, and slammed her stockinged feet back on the cushions.

  “What was the date of the Long War?” Frau Schilling frowned, focusing on the historic conflict and ignoring the one growing in front of her.

  “Oh, the Long War, when the Ottomans took over Hungary . . .” Minna began.

  “Excuse me, Fräulein Bernays. That’s not the lesson. It’s just the dates today.”

  “Yes, Tante Minna. It’s just the dates today,” Mathilde said, imitating the governess’s congested, nasal tone.

  Minna stood up calmly, picked up Mathilde’s feet like two lead weights, and dropped them on the floor. Mathilde flushed with anger, pulling on her scratchy, high-necked collar, which dug into her neck like a claw.

  Minna then launched into a detailed account of the invasion by the Turks in the fifteenth century and the grisly, barbaric wars that blighted Austria’s medieval history, eventually leading to the long reign of the Hapsburgs and the founding of the Empire of Austria in 1804.

  Mathilde sat sullen and silent, her mouth turned down at the edges in grim defiance. Right after Minna reenacted the Battle of Königgratz, which freed the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein, Mathilde stood up, threw a velvet cushion on the floor, and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

  “I think that’s all for today, Frau Shilling,” Minna said.

  “That child is obstinate and disrespectful and will never learn anything.”

  “Perhaps it’s just a stage,” Minna replied, feeling suddenly defensive and maternal despite the child’s behavior. “She’s at that age.”

  Minna made a mental note to talk to Martha about Mathilde, although she found the mediocrity of Frau Schilling’s instruction almost as offensive as her cold, supercilious attitude. Everyone knew that girls of this age need warmth and attention, no matter how rebellious they happened to be.

  The day carried on with the usual amount of errands and supervision of children. Sophie spent the afternoon with the speech therapist, and the boys were supposed to be studying, although they could get distracted at any given moment, according to their mood and inclinations. Today, it seemed that Oliver was the most disorganized of all. His brain was full of lurid tales of heathen barbarity when he was supposed to be studying civics, and he would suddenly erupt into descriptive streams of bloody slaughter that would make Minna want to laugh out loud. Then there was Martin. In addition to his fever, when she delivered his biscuits, she happened to notice that the third finger on his left hand was bent in a most disturbing manner. And when she tried to take a closer look, he hid it behind his back and ran away from her.

  Martha, meanwhile, announced at mid-morning that she had a doctor’s appointment—her intestinal colic was acting up and she felt bilious and out of sorts—which was perfect timing, since Minna had heard a slight scuffling behind the skirting board in the kitchen, but would rather die than tell Martha there might be a rat in the house. Her sister would quarantine the kitchen for God knows how long, and they’d be forced to listen to grisly tales of the Black Plague for the next two weeks. Minna would simply bait a few traps and throw them around, and that would be the end of it. But, then again, this wasn’t her house.

  When she first came to Berggasse 19, she believed her stay would be of a temporary nature. And every now and then, usually in the late afternoon, she would stop her household duties and consider her future, her mind circling her dead-end options, like a buzzard over a corpse.

  She could swallow her pride, take the train to Hamburg, and live with her mother. Heaven forbid. She and her mother had, at best, a chilly relationship and she wouldn’t want to be dependent on her now.

  Or she could find yet another position as a governess or a lady’s companion. This would most certainly lead to a dull, servile life with a brutal work schedule of seven days a week, with only a half day off on Sunday afternoon. But at least she could support herself.

  It was at this point that her temples would begin to throb, and, fearing a vernal migraine, she would disappear silently into the kitchen and prepare a cup of tea, watching the leaves swirl around at the bottom of her cup.

  Who else could she turn to? There was her brother, Eli, who had emigrated to New York. She could ask him to lend her passage to America, but starting over, in a new country with no husband and no friends, was a daunting proposition.

  For Martha, there was no question of what Minna should do—settle for an aging bachelor or widower selected by the family. Wasn’t there that man, Herr something or other, whom she had met last winter? Well dressed in a frock coat and smoking those gold-tipped cigarettes? Or the other one—the stodgy dry-goods merchant with a waxen pallor and heavy-veined hands. He was at least twenty years her senior, slow and stubborn, but rich. In any event, a marriage of convenience, in Minna’s opinion, was simply no marriage at all. She had seen women settle for the family’s choice—a “highly eligible,” handpicked man. And one could argue that there was nothing wrong with living in a comfortable, well-furnished house with a hansom, two horses, a clothing allowance, and a man who paid for it all. It reminded Minna of her childhood friend, Elsie, a fragile, wary, and passive young woman, who purchased a pistol shortly after her arranged marriage. She methodically loaded it, hid it under her cloak, and hired a coach to take her to the train station, where she sat all day, contemplating the time of her demise. After much consideration, she instead went home, placed the loaded gun on her bedside table, and confided to Minna that she had warned her husband never to come near her again. And he didn’t.

  Perhaps if she had been more frugal over the years, less mercurial, she wouldn’t be in this position. But for now, she would try not to lose heart and, in the meantime, stay here and help ease the burden of her sister’s overwhelming life.

  6

  By three o’clock, Minna sat down halfway up the stairs. She felt frazzled by the day, an ache of exhaustion in her legs. She was desperate to get out of the house. Every sound she heard beckoned her—the staccato four-four beat of horses dragging their carriages, the belling of the trams, the muffled conversations of people strolling along the pavement. Finally Minna approached Frau Josefine and suggested she take the healthy children to the zoo. There was no entrance fee and the Imperial Menagerie had just been enlarged to include a bison den. The day maid could tend to Martin and Anna.

  With that settled, Minna decided to take her walk. She powdered and pinked her neck and throat, sprinkled a few drops of rosewater on her wrist, buttoned up her gray duster coat, and skewered her plumed hat with long bonnet pins. She had planned to cross over to the Prater and then pay a visit to the public library, as she was longing to get a few more decent books, but as she walked through the vestibule, she heard Freud’s distinctive voice.

  “Is that you, Minna?”

  “Yes, Sigmund. I’m going out. Do you need anything?”

  “Not really,” he said, “but I could use some air. I’ll come with you.”

  “Of course,” she answered, hesitating slightly, though she could not say why.

  He grabbed his coat and hat and followed her out the front door, inhaling the fresh air as though it contained the essence of pomander. She had to admit that she felt a little awkward when he casually slipped his arm through hers, as if they were a couple taking a leisurely stroll. She moved away from him on the pretext of adjusting her hat, and thought it odd that she should suddenly feel uncomfortable with Sigmund.

  Still, it was a radiantly gorgeous day, and she was glad to be outside. She never mentioned where she was going and he didn’t ask. He led her briskly through a labyrinth of crowded, nar
row side streets leading to the Ring, passing blocks of top-heavy, yellowed apartment buildings, shops with half-opened doors, and cafés where proprietors were wiping off tables and stacking chairs. Carts and carriages clogged the avenues, and one could just make out the romantic glow of the Gothic tower of St. Stephen’s, the heart of the capital.

  He picked up the pace as they got closer to the center of the city and at one point pulled a cigar from his waistcoat, clipping and lighting it. Then he steered her down a narrow passageway. Why couldn’t he slow down, she thought. He was racing around the corners like a fugitive. A deep pink suffused her cheeks in her effort to keep up with him. And she had dressed far too heavily for the day. Normally she wore as many as nine or ten layers of clothes—knickers, corset, woolen stockings over cotton ones, cotton bodice, petticoat, camisole, blouse, skirt, coat. And her high-top boots, which were far too narrow and designed for women with no toes.

  How could the man walk so fast and smoke so much? They ended up directly in front of the Greek-columned Houses of Parliament. She leaned over, unhooked the first few buttons of her boots, and quickly straightened up, ignoring a moment of vertigo, the heat, perhaps.

  “See this?” he said, oblivious to her high color. “Vienna’s version of the Acropolis—the model for the new hospital for the insane. What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s . . .”

  “A complete travesty,” he said, finishing her sentence.

  He was referring to Am Steinhof, the hospital for mental and nervous patients that was being built a few miles outside of town and would take a decade to complete. He told her of the sixty buildings with patients segregated by illness—the curable, the incurable, the half quiet, the nervous, the violent, the syphilitic insane, and the criminal. In addition, he said, the plans called for electric trams, landscaped gardens, a piggery, stables, chapels, and, of course, a graveyard.