Freud's Mistress Read online

  “Does he?”

  “Not that I know of . . . but debasement and humiliation seem to increase his desire. The world is filled with those who desire all sorts of things—fetishes, flagellation, sadism, even bondage.”

  “Why would anyone submit to that?”

  He pressed in, his face close to hers. “There are many kinds of erotic tastes, my dear. For instance, if I were to slip satin ribbons around your wrists and ankles and tie them to the bedposts, then slowly make love to you while you lay naked, unable to move, allowing you to surrender to your darker, carnal urges. Even you, Minna, might find that erotic.”

  He stared at her, clearly pleased with himself.

  He’s definitely playing with me, she thought, flushing. This is maddening. But overriding that was a weird, tantalizing desire to hear more. The wild side of his intellect had always fascinated her.

  “Could you light this for me?” she asked, pulling a cigarette from her pocket.

  He struck a match and held it in front of her, watching her inhale deeply. She blew out a thin stream of smoke and then tried to engage him, one colleague to another.

  “And your other patients?”

  “There’s a young woman, Dora,” Freud continued, flicking the match just short of the fireplace. “She came to me complaining of a multitude of symptoms—fainting spells and suicidal depression. She had a nagging cough and sometimes couldn’t even talk. After several sessions, I discovered that when she was fourteen, she used to mind the children of family friends. I’ll call them the ‘K’s.’ We all know them. But what she didn’t reveal to her parents was that Herr K had been making sexual advances toward her for years. And when she finally did tell them, they accused her of making it all up.”

  “The poor girl.”

  “Yes. I got her to tell me everything. Herr K would ask her to sit on his lap, and then he would put his hand up her skirt and insert his fingers into her vagina, stimulating her into orgasm. She told me she could feel his erect penis against her thigh and that on numerous occasions he would ask her to stroke it. The problem was, although she vehemently refused to admit it, I think she actually liked the sexual arousal. When I pointed this out, she left my office in a rage.”

  Freud stared at Minna, waiting for her reaction.

  “Well,” Minna said, sitting back, trying to treat his explicit description in a purely professional manner, “I sympathize with your frustration. I do. But frankly, Sigmund, if I were fourteen and some older man was doing that to me, and then, years later, another older man told me that I secretly liked it, I might leave in a rage as well.”

  “You have to tell patients the truth or they’ll never be cured. Men and women who can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t function. Some are in love with their sister’s husband, some wish their baby brother dead. They desire forbidden things. Everyone does. We’re all sick. And we need to talk about it.”

  “Isn’t this just another form of confession?”

  “Call it whatever you like. But it’s not in the least religious or moralistic, it’s about tolerance.”

  “Tolerance?”

  “Yes, tolerance of ourselves.”

  “But, in the end, doesn’t the mind go antagonizing on? I think Emerson said that.”

  “Sometimes even the Americans have insights.”

  The curtains were open a little, and over Freud’s shoulder, Minna could see that the lights had gone out in the apartment across the street. She wondered what time it was. Surely well past midnight. She would regret this in the morning. She leaned her head against the chair and watched him walk to the fireplace and stir the embers. Assuming his full height, he turned back to her.

  “She’ll be back,” he said, with a confident smile. “I know I’m right.”

  He reached for his wineglass and accidentally brushed her knee. Or was it an accident? Whatever it was, Minna felt a charge in her gut that was definitely unseemly. And the wine didn’t help.

  “It’s getting late,” she said, standing up, the flush of alcohol staining her cheeks.

  Their eyes met for a moment and she wondered briefly when things had changed between them. She had expected when she came here that their relationship would remain as it had always been, uncomplicated and intellectual. But it was as if the Freud she had known for years had transformed into someone else. This felt like a new beginning. But that wasn’t what she wanted. The thought that kept creeping into her mind was, would she have behaved this way in front of her sister? Would he?

  9

  Minna, are you awake?” Martha called. “Come in here, dear, will you? Minna?”

  Minna awoke with a dull roar behind her ears and dry, cakey lips. The space above her eyes ached and the light made it worse. She rolled over and sat up abruptly, increasing her discomfort. “I’m up. I’m up . . . I’m getting dressed.”

  She threw the sheets aside, and padded barefoot across the cold, buckled-wood floor. Narrow shafts of sunlight streamed through the cracks of the closed shutters and she could hear noises from the busy street below. She opened the window and a waft of clean, fresh air hit her face as she took a deep breath. My God, she thought, I haven’t slept this late in years. Too much wine. She knew it before she went to bed last night. That had been the problem . . . too much wine for all of them. She would not do that again.

  Normally Minna would put on a day costume, a crisp white blouse and tight-waisted skirt falling smoothly over the hips. But today she couldn’t face the thought of hooking all those buttons on her blouse. She fumbled through her wardrobe and chose a simple blue serge dress with far less business. This will be fine, she thought.

  The master bedroom was located directly next door, and last night Minna could hear Martha snoring through the walls as she undressed and got into bed. Right before she fell asleep, she was vaguely aware of heavy footsteps in the hall.

  Minna found her sister sitting in bed, surrounded by her needlework and two popular magazines, La Vie Parisienne and Illustrated News. Freud’s side of the bed was smooth and cold, as if no one had been there all night. The shutters were closed, effecting an almost total absence of sunlight. As Minna stepped into the room she heard the downstairs door slam shut. He was leaving. At the same time, the insistent wail of an infant carried through the halls. Martha pulled the brass-handled bell rope by her bed, and a jingle traveled to the kitchen. A few moments later, Edna, the upstairs maid, could be heard outside the door.

  “Yes, madam?” Edna asked, straightening Martha’s bed linens and plumping the pillow on Freud’s side of the bed. Edna was a large, raw-boned figure, about a head taller than most women, and she reminded Minna of Mrs. Squeers, a minor but memorable character in Nicholas Nickleby. Unlike Dickens’s character, however, Edna was not at all cruel. She was breathless from climbing the stairs and a bit out of sorts.

  This morning she had already lit the fires, cleaned the grates, brought water to every room, awakened the children, and flushed the water closets.

  “Does Nanny know the baby’s crying?” Martha asked.

  “Most certainly,” Edna said, pushing a strand of hair under her white starched cap.

  “And the other children?”

  “Martin’s throat still has the infection.”

  “Sophie and Oliver?”

  “Their throats are now seedy, too.”

  “Well, keep them away from my husband.”

  As Minna listened, Martha proceeded to review methodically the children’s activities and ailments, organizing and coordinating all the errands and tasks of the housemaids, nursemaid, governess, and cook. It made Minna’s head spin. She was still not quite used to the constant mayhem and frantic rhythm of it all. Even though her duties in former households had been demanding, she had never dealt with six children before.

  It was no wonder Freud retreated downstairs to his office. He spent most of his time
there, a place strictly prohibited to the family. The geography enforced that edict. It was one floor down from the residence, but it might as well have been across town. When he was in his office, no one intruded.

  Martha continued giving instructions to Edna, who suddenly began punching her thighs with both fists and then tilted her head back and grimaced.

  “What’s the problem, now?” Martha asked.

  “It’s my rheumatism acting up again.”

  “I thought it was lumbago?”

  “It’s both.”

  “Both. Of course. And the household knee?”

  “That, too,” she said, defiantly.

  “So many ailments, Edna.”

  “Will that be all, madam?” she asked.

  “Yes. And don’t forget the plants. They need to be watered exactly at eleven.”

  Edna heaved a big sigh, then pointedly limped out of the room and shut the door. Martha looked pained, then drew her needlework out of the basket and began crocheting, resolutely jabbing the hook in and out. As if this house needed more doilies.

  “Exactly eleven?” Minna asked.

  “She always forgets.”

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to. That woman drives me mad. I swear, every week there’s something else. One more ailment, I’m letting her go for good.”

  “No, you’re not. She’s been with you forever,” Minna said, discounting her sister’s annoyance with a wave.

  “I’m just tired of all her woes. The debts. The husband who cheats. The ailing mother. The sister who lost her position. I spend all my time appeasing her, then I get angry and fire her. Then I feel guilty. It’s just too much. Get me a damp cloth, will you?”

  Listening to Martha was a stark reminder that in these times, women either kept servants or were one. In Minna’s experience, wherever she worked, the world was divided into servants and masters, “us” and “them.” Drifting within this rigid caste system were jobs such as governesses and ladies’ companions. These women, like herself, were typically single and existed in a kind of social limbo. They were often upper middle class, but due to unfortunate circumstances regarding their family’s fortunes or their marital status, they were forced to find a way to support themselves.

  Minna learned the hard way that this existence was a domestic no-man’s-land. The servants in the household often envied and disparaged her as having airs beyond her means. The fact of the matter was, she worked for a salary like any other domestic servant yet she was considered of a higher class. Her employers, while not treating her exactly like a servant, considered her a refugee from failed circumstances, thus not entitled to be treated as an equal.

  But here it was different. After all, here she was family.

  Minna picked up a linen towel next to the washbowl, dipped it in the lukewarm water, and handed it to Martha.

  “Let’s change the subject, shall we? Can we talk about Mathilde?” asked Minna.

  “Why? Is she sick, too?”

  “Sick of her studies. The child is completely uninterested. Although that governess makes history as boring as a dog’s lunch.”

  “You could hire all the governesses from Vienna to Berlin and Mathilde still wouldn’t be interested. Anyway, what does she need all that Latin and history for?”

  “You’re not saying she shouldn’t be educated, are you? And, by the way, is she allowed to put her boots all over the furniture? The other day she—”

  “Of course not,” Martha interrupted. “My dear, I have a beastly headache. Didn’t sleep a wink last night. Could you hand me my medicine? Top drawer on the right.”

  Minna picked up the cobalt-blue bottle of Mother Bailey’s Quieting Syrup, one of the most popular laudanum pain relievers and, as she had learned in a former place of employment, as easy to obtain as salt. Anyone with a whit of a brain knew it was liquid opium, and it would cure whatever ailed you in a minute flat—hiccups, syphilis, bronchitis, a wretched existence. One of the governesses she knew downed it like gin every night after supper and then jabbered on until oblivion about her troubles. Minna wished Martha wouldn’t use it, and it vexed her to no end that she was giving it to the children. You just had to look at the label on the bottle to see the insidious evil of it all. A Medici-like portrait of a mother dressed in flowing white gown and her cherub-faced baby. The woman wore an enigmatic smile as she held a syringe in her outstretched hand. It was as if she were about to administer a soothing, warm bottle of milk, and not poison.

  “You should be careful with that,” Minna said. “Why don’t you take a bit of whiskey? It works just as well.”

  “Nonsense. You know that’s not true. And, besides, everyone takes it,” Martha snapped, placing the damp cloth back over her forehead.

  Martha was right. Everyone did take it. Artists and literary lions from as far back as the turn of the century—Lord Byron, Keats, Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. They all wrote of it. Some died from it. Even the altruist Florence Nightingale regaled on its soothing properties. Minna wasn’t going to get Martha to dump it down the drain, but at least she could try to limit its use.

  “But you shouldn’t take it in the daytime.”

  “I told you, I didn’t sleep a wink. Now hand it to me.”

  “All right. But I’ve stopped giving it to Sophie.”

  “Really. That child hasn’t slept through the night for months.”

  “She doesn’t need it anymore.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “What does Sigmund think?”

  “Who knows? All he does is work . . . and he’s so irritable.”

  Minna studied Martha’s face as she took another dose. Her skin had the grayish tinge of an invalid, her hair lifeless and stuck to her scalp. Damn it to hell, she looks terrible, Minna thought. Why doesn’t she care? Martha seemed twice as alive before all the children. Now everything she did seemed strenuous, too much effort. Sometimes she was all bustle and precision and other times it was almost as if someone had knocked the wind out of her and killed her, but she wasn’t dead. Martha leaned her head back on the pillow and laughed dryly.

  “I’d like to help him but he doesn’t confide in me anymore. Walks around in foul moods. You’ve seen it.”

  “Not really, Martha. Have you tried talking to him?”

  “Whenever I do, he gets annoyed. Also . . . his research. Truthfully, I can’t abide it.” Martha pulled the cloth off her forehead, leaned forward, and lowered her voice, “It all seems like pornography. . . .”

  “In what sense?”

  “In every sense,” she replied, compressing her lips. “Everything’s sexual. No one in polite society discusses these things. Sometimes I wish he were just an old-fashioned family practitioner. So much more dignified.”

  Minna thought back to the days of their childhood when her mother, like most women, pointedly avoided any discussions of sex or even reproduction, and how traumatized Martha was when she first got her menses. Her sister thought she was dying and ran downstairs screaming for their mother, who calmly told her it was the women’s monthly “visitor,” and proceeded to hand her a sanitary towel. “Throw it in the fire afterward,” she had said. That was it. When it was Minna’s turn, she didn’t tell her mother at all.

  Minna watched Martha’s head lolling against the headboard, one arm limp against her chest.

  “And some of his patients are so disturbed. I can barely stand to walk by them outside his office. Did you know one of them actually tried to kill himself right in our very home?”

  “What?”

  “Threw himself off the stairway. He wasn’t successful. But caused quite a commotion, in any event.”

  “How inconvenient for you.”

  “I would say,” Martha responded in a serious vein. Minna had assumed Marth
a would pick up on her sarcasm, but apparently not.

  “But surely you can’t deny the importance of his work,” Minna said.

  “You tell me. What of this new theory he claims might be central to everything? This Oedipus complex. I can’t even bear to repeat it. Pure smut.”

  Minna’s mind went back to an old letter of Freud’s in which he touched on this concept but didn’t explain it in depth. It was based on the Sophocles play Oedipus the King and the myth from which it was based. She knew the high points. An oracle warned Laius, king of Thebes, and his wife, Jocasta, that if they had a child, he would eventually murder his father and marry his mother. The couple, in fact, had a child, and left him to die on a mountaintop, but he was rescued and raised as a prince in a distant court.

  When the child came of age, he was warned to avoid traveling to his birthplace. But one day he accidentally took the wrong road, met up with King Laius, and killed him, unaware that he was his father. He then made his way to Thebes to rescue the city from the Sphinx. Once there, he unknowingly married his mother, Jocasta, who bore him four children. From this ancient tale, Freud theorized that all boys lust after their mothers and resent their fathers. These feelings flood them with guilt, jealousy, and self-loathing.

  “It’s so upsetting,” Martha said, absently massaging her forehead. “How does he come up with such bizarre notions? When I think about my own sons, it just makes my skin crawl.”

  “I don’t know,” Minna said, with a half smile. “It could explain some things. For instance, why do men marry women who look like their mother?”

  “Are you intimating that I look like Amalia? That’s not funny!” Martha said to Minna, who was now giggling.

  “Oh, Martha, where’s your sense of humor?”

  “I have none right now. My head is bursting. Hand me the bottle, will you?”