Freud's Mistress (22 page)

A
s they packed to leave, Minna wondered what Martha knew about their whereabouts. Had there been some sort of negotiation? Did they talk about her desperate situation, her pathetic life? Was she the unwanted relative, the charity case? What
exactly
had he told Martha? she asked.

“Everything,” he said. Martha knew that Freud had a conference in Frankfurt and would spend a few days in Switzerland before returning. It was decided that if he could talk Minna into accompanying him, he would bring her to Switzerland (although there was no mention of a grand hotel) and then home afterward. No one would question the arrangement. And Martha would never find out the truth. Ironic he should say this, Minna thought, when he had written in one of his papers that “even when lips are silent . . . betrayal forces its way through every pore.”

She was suddenly beset by another round of doubts. How could she face her sister, knowing what she had done? And done again. Her mother had always promoted the biblical tenets that if you aggrieve someone, your conscience will torture you until you seek forgiveness. But how could Minna seek forgiveness while living in that house and yearning for her sister's husband?

Sometimes she felt as if the past events were beyond her control. Passion—the emotion that sent her sinking into her bed, wondering if she could ever regain her footing. An emotion that allowed her to forget everyone.

Most people would consult clergy, seeking solutions to their moral dilemmas. But Minna knew very well what the solution was. She was just unable to carry it out.

Culpa.
The Latin word for guilt.

Mea culpa.
My fault. A beloved aunt and sister makes room for a woman who sins.

Passion
. From the Latin word
patior
, which means to suffer.

She continued in this chaotic whirl, but in the end it was fairly simple—she wasn't ready to give him up. She was too far gone to stop. She now knew that there was another state of being. It was a feeling that invaded every cell of her body, a force that changed her from a rational being into one who was decidedly not. Desire—it was a kind of insanity.

•   •   •

I
t was evening by the time the two travelers arrived at Berggasse 19, and the weather had turned ugly. A summer storm had blown in and sheets of rain hammered down on the two-horse carriage, a ferocious wind ramming the wheels against the muddy curb. The coachman, bareheaded, wrestled with the sopping reins as the horses stamped and spooked each other, their hides steaming with mud and sweat. Minna emerged, clutching her useless crepe parasol, and sloshed through mounds of muck that piled up in front of the apartment. Freud hastily followed, head bowed in protective mode.

Martha and the children were standing in the doorway, huddled against yet another blast of rain. When the pair finally reached her, Martha pulled Minna toward her as if rescuing a drowning victim and embraced her. She looked relieved to see her sister, and if she noticed anything out of the ordinary, she did not reveal it.

“I've been so lonely without you, my sister,” Martha said, pushing back the stray, wet strands of hair that had fallen across her sister's forehead. “This is your home for as long as you wish. Would you mind taking your boots off before you come in?”

Minna could not help but think that this scene was much like the first time she had arrived at the Freud residence. With one exception. Today she had arrived home on the arm of her brother-in-law. She searched Martha's pale, drawn face for some sign of hesitation or doubt, but there was none, just a weariness beneath her welcome.

The children were delighted to greet them and, for once, all of them were healthy at the same time. Sophie took Minna's hand, claiming her in a possessive way and imploring her to come upstairs to see her new dollhouse. The boys surrounded their father, pelting him with questions: “Did you collect mushrooms?” “Swim in the lake?” “Go fishing?” and then there was Oliver's stream of detailed inquiries concerning the height and flow of the glaciers.

“Come in, my dears,” Martha said, as she kissed Freud lightly on the cheek. He smiled at her, greeted the children, and seemed perfectly comfortable with the whole arrangement.

“Sigi, my dear. I thought we'd have a cup of tea and you could tell us about your trip.”

“I'm sorry. I can't possibly right now. I've lost an extraordinary amount of time these past few weeks and I have to work,” he said as he headed for his study.

“Of course,” Martha said flatly. “Ernst, Oliver, Martin. Someone help Tante Minna upstairs with her valise.”

The boys argued among themselves for a moment; then Oliver grabbed the bag and headed upstairs. Minna found her room exactly as she had left it, the wardrobe still holding her dresses. She sat down on the bed and took off her clothes, leaving them for dead in a heap on the floor. She stood before the mirror, pulled out her combs, and brushed her damp, wavy hair before selecting a fresh outfit from her suitcase.

Edna, the housemaid, helped her unpack, all the while chirping merrily like a jaybird.

“It's so nice to see Frau Freud up and dressed. She's been feeling so poorly lately. Her nerves and all. Truth to tell, she's barely been able to handle the children these last few months. And the doctor never comes out of his study. I'm so glad you've come home. Sophie was in tears after you left. You were sorely missed, I can tell you that. . . .”

There was a light knock on the door as Martha came into the room. Minna glanced at the dark circles ringing her sister's eyes, and noticed a slight strain in her voice.

“Are you unwell?” Minna asked, wondering fleetingly if Martha suspected anything.

“I didn't get a wink of sleep last night, and when I was finally on the verge, Sophie walked in my room and burst into tears. I swear that child cries at the slightest provocation.”

“It's the nightmares. I find that if I read to her, it gets her mind off it.”

“No wonder she adores you. I haven't the strength to read a book at three in the morning,” Martha said, squeezing her sister's hand. “In any event, you must be tired from your holiday. Tell me all about it.”

Minna examined Martha's face. There was nothing to reveal anything other than polite interest. But Martha was talking in a tone that Minna knew so well. The tone she used when she was saying one thing but conveying another. Sometimes she wished her sister would just come right out and tell her what she was thinking. Throw a tantrum, scream, get angry. Sometimes Minna would have liked to know what was really going on in her brain. This, however, was not one of those times.

“Well, Switzerland was lovely. We had much free time . . . we discussed his research . . . and I'll admit that some of it is so complicated, it tried his patience explaining it to me.”

“But you eventually understood it?”

“Oh, yes. He's found that neurotic behavior can be directly attributed to—”

“I'd much rather hear what else you did. Did you go hiking? Swimming? Mushroom hunting?”

“Well, just a bit of hiking . . . and we went up a funicular . . .”

“Dreadful contraption! I hated every moment of it when we went once. But then, if I never go to Switzerland again, it would be good riddance. And what did you do at night?” Martha asked, tidying up Minna's scattered clothes.

“At night? Well, there's really nothing to do up there,” Minna said, now clasping her hands tightly together.

“They had a nice dining room, as I recall.”

“Yes. But I wasn't in the mood for the music.”

“Music? At that place? They didn't have music . . .”

“I think it was just a visiting musician. Nothing fancy,” Minna said, rattled. “In any event, I was tired from the journey and just wanted to rest.”

“My sentiments exactly. Travel is tedious and difficult. In fact, if I had my way, I'd no longer travel at all. Except for an occasional visit to Mother and our annual holiday with the children.”

“But surely you don't want to spend your entire life in Vienna. There are so many places to see.”

“Let Sigmund tour the world—Rome, Paris, New York, Athens. Let him go wherever he wants with whomever he wants. Lord knows, he doesn't want to go with me.”

“I'm sure that's not true—”

“Did you ever get a letter from Eduard?” Martha broke in, abruptly changing the subject.

“Yes, I did,” Minna said.

“And how did you respond?”

“I didn't.”

“That seems rather rude. How unlike you.”

“I didn't want to encourage the man.”

Martha paused, as if deciding whether or not to continue. Then she exhaled heavily.

“
Oh, Minna
, who else do you think is going to come along at this point?”

There was that stubborn angle to her chin that Minna knew from years of experience meant she was just getting started. She never gave up once she had her teeth into something. This was the prelude to her “you're your own worst enemy” lecture.

“Lord knows, I've said this often enough, and it's not my place to keep harping, but sometimes you're your own worst—”

A shriek from the parlor interrupted Martha. Then a crash.

“Mother! Martin just broke your good vase and he's bleeding,” Mathilde shouted in her usual annoyed tone.

“I'm coming! Get a cloth from the kitchen! I swear, Minna, I'm at the end of my rope.”

Martha and Minna hurried down the hall, passing Sigmund, who was striding in the opposite direction.

“It's such a coincidence,” Martha said. “The minute something happens with the children, he's nowhere in sight, or racing out of here.”

“Perhaps he's otherwise occupied,” Minna replied.

“He's
always
otherwise occupied.”

It was not lost on Minna that he had, indeed, been “otherwise occupied” these last few days. With her. But momentarily she felt a strange lack of guilt, which stayed with her as she helped Martha clean up the mess and patch up Martin's hand. The thought of settling for a pale imitation of Freud was unthinkable now. And she would do whatever was necessary to be near him.

V
ienna was sweltering. August arrived with a vengeance, and for the first time in years, the Freud family did not escape the oppressive heat for their mountain retreat in Altaussee. To the children's bitter disappointment, their father had contacted the landlord of the cottage they rented in Obertressen, near the lake, and canceled their reservation. Throughout the month, Martin, Oliver, and Sophie had a succession of illnesses that they then passed on to Martha. In addition, Freud was still wrestling with the final chapters of his dream book, and his publisher, Franz Deuticke, was eager to see it. Deuticke owned a small scientific publishing house in Vienna and had initially sounded surprised at the subject matter, but no more so than with
Studies in Hysteria
, which he had also published.

So the family stayed in town, and as the summer days wore on, they were often confined to the house. Most days it was too hot to walk, and all errands were accomplished before noon. Sudden thunderstorms offered little relief, and in the evenings the air was still, heavy with humidity.

“In America, they have electric fans,” Oliver offered.

“That would be the
only
reason to go there,” his father shot back.

When Minna and Freud first returned from Switzerland, both of them had agreed that the affair could not exist at Berggasse 19. But that didn't stop them from meeting at the small pension near the train station on an odd afternoon, or carrying on their late-night discussions in his study. Whenever he'd ring for her, after supper, when the children were in bed, she'd change into a muslin summer dress, fill a pitcher with cold beer or lemonade, and walk downstairs to see him. She'd bring along her silk fan in the pocket of her skirt and sometimes apply a cold, damp cloth to the back of his neck as they talked softly into the night about his work—his dream theories, his patients, his self-analysis, and always, the sexual basis of neurotic behavior. Eventually the heat would get to both of them.

“I can't go on. It's like an oven in here. And my shoulders are aching,” he said, smoking so much she could hardly breathe.

“Would you like a bucket of ice? I could run upstairs. Or would you like me to rub your neck?”

“No, no,” he said, standing up and snubbing out his cigar. “It's suffocating. I'm done for the night. Close the window, will you?”

“Of course.” She paused. “Good night, then.”

“Yes. Good night, dear.”

During this period, Freud's research was all-consuming and he became increasingly obsessed as the weeks went by. Night after night, he stayed in his steaming office, the windows open, nursing a sweaty pitcher of beer as he read through pages of case studies, scratching out copious notes on the margins.

His only diversion was a short trip to Munich for a conference with Dr. Fliess. He had become even closer to Fliess since his split with Dr. Breuer, and Freud spoke of Fliess's theories almost reverentially, even though Minna found them all wildly far-fetched.

To begin with, the doctor believed that nearly every major disease and symptom in the human body was caused by the nose. Physical maladies from migraines to heart ailments, stomach pains, and joint disorders could all be related back to the runny mucous membranes of the olfactory organs. But Fliess went even further, theorizing that the nose was also responsible for sexual disorders.

Minna wasn't exactly clear on how the good doctor from Berlin made this leap from a sinus infection to frigidity or bisexuality, but Freud seemed fascinated, even bewitched, by such absurdities.

When Minna heard about Fliess's preoccupation with the nose, she made a few wry comments comparing Fliess to Cyrano de Bergerac. Freud was not amused, so she kept the Pinocchio joke to herself.

•   •   •

S
ince Minna's return, she had taken over almost complete supervision of the children. They kept her busy from morning until night, all of them underfoot and each one restless and bored. She and Martha had always shared the duties in the household equally, but now Martha delegated more responsibilities to her sister.

“It's only fair. I worked so hard while you were in Frankfurt,” she said more than once, as if Minna had been on a four-month vacation.

Ever since they were girls, Martha had been vigilant about a strict division of labor and rewards. Everything with her sister had to be exactly equal. If they shared a piece of cake, she insisted that one cut it and the other choose. If Martha ran an errand for their mother, she'd tell Minna, “Next time, it's your turn.” She always kept score, in precise terms, of who did what and when, sulking when things didn't come out even. Minna was hoping that her sister had grown out of this childish form of sibling rivalry, but it seemed that Martha still viewed her world as tit for tat, quid pro quo.

One morning, when there was a slight breeze and the temperature edged down a few notches, Minna decided they couldn't, in good conscience, keep the children cooped up one more minute. The house was oppressive and Martha's instructions made it worse. Windows and drapes were routinely closed against the harsh sunlight during the day, and then only opened again at dusk. In addition, there were no hot meals. Martha “couldn't tolerate a fire in the kitchen.”

Despite Minna's pleas, Martha specifically told her that she didn't want the children roaming around the streets.

“It's too hot, too dusty, and there are reports of random looting downtown. You
must
have heard about it. Florence Skekel told me they were targeting Jewish shopkeepers. ‘Semitic polluters,' that's what they call us. Can you imagine?”

“I've heard Florence is an alarmist.”

“From who?”

“Her husband, when we played cards.”

“He doesn't understand her.”

Later that afternoon, after Minna had been run ragged all day, Martha finally relented, allowing the children outside.

“Take them to the Prater,” she said, waving one hand in the air, as if she were shooing away gnats. And upon hearing a loud crash added, “As soon as possible!”

But at this point Minna was dead tired. “Martha, let's do it tomorrow. It's been a hectic day and I don't have the energy.”

“Really, Minna. It's not
that
much trouble. Why are you so tired? You certainly had enough rest. Lord knows I've dealt with this household by myself all these months you were gone. Are you ill?”

“No, I'm not ill. But I'm exhausted and it's just too late to go now.”

“Perhaps you're tired because you've been visiting Sigmund in his study until all hours, although it's good Sigi has someone to talk to . . .”

There was a pause as the two sisters looked at each other. Then Minna slowly turned and headed for the kitchen.

“I'll have a cup of coffee and then take them.”

Minna slunk back into the kitchen. She felt perverse around Martha, even pathetic. She was now in the position where she had to lie to her sister about the most basic things and then wonder, constantly, if her words sounded plausible. She had a bad taste in her mouth, felt squeamish even, as if there were something rotten in the room that reeked but she had to ignore. Before she left the house for Hamburg, she was conflicted, even anguished by her desire. She convinced herself that the attraction she felt for Sigmund was something that had befallen her rather than something she had instigated. But now that she was reestablished in the household, there were moments when her stomach turned as Martha and she talked about the marketing, the children, the everyday occurrences. And then afterward, she was surprised at how she could act so cool, and indifferent, as if this brazen violation were not happening.

Minna sipped her coffee in the kitchen, leaning against the sideboard and wilted by the heat. What if she were a family friend or a neighbor, and had fallen in love with Sigmund? Would that be easier? Yes, easier, she thought. It would be an affair, and wives get over affairs, but this was different—more sinful. At least she still had the decency to be disgusted by her behavior. She smiled to herself at the ridiculous reasoning of this statement.

But along with everything else, she was frightened. Not just for herself any longer, but for all of them. It was as if she were waiting for that moment when Martha would suddenly turn and accuse her. But that moment had not come. Sometimes she almost wished it would happen so that she would be released from the torture of her shallow, shameless self.