Freud's Mistress (24 page)

T
he next Sunday, like every other Sunday, Freud's family gathered for an obligatory dinner at his parents' apartment. At the appointed hour of noon, Minna, Martha, and the children climbed into the crowded omnibus, cramming together in the last two rows of the bus. It was a rainy morning, the weather had dramatically changed overnight, and the horses jog-trotted through the cobbled streets, snorting off jets of steam.

It was Minna's humble opinion that omnibus conductors were foremost in the ranks of thievery, extorting as much money as they could from their passengers. Before the rates were fixed, there were numerous squabbles on the corner as to how much the cads would charge from point A to point B. But finally the council set the rates, which made omnibus travel much more pleasant.

Minna straightened her shawl and smoothed the front of her dress. The windows were beginning to fog and smear as a heavy, damp closeness hovered in the air. The children were in their Sunday best, hunched up, rubbing their eyes and sullenly staring out the grease-streaked windows.

“I'm suffocating!” Martin said, as he leaned over and pulled down the glass-paneled window.

“No. Thut it,” Sophie lisped. “I'm cold.”

Oliver leaned over to close the window, just as a splash of muddy puddle water from a massive two-horse brewer's dray hit the bus and sprayed brown droplets down the front of Oliver's immaculate sailor suit.

“Now look what you've done!” Martha said.

“Not my fault,” Martin shouted.

“Just sit there and be quiet,” Martha scolded, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief.

“Why do I always get blamed?”

“Because you do stupid things,” said Oliver, as Minna, who had a bilious headache, tried to change the subject. She was still angry at the way Sigmund had treated her the previous afternoon, but she had no choice but to come today. At any rate, she didn't have the energy to start a scene with Martha about wanting to stay home. The children did enough of that as it was.

“If you all look to your immediate right you can
make out the spires of St. Stephen's,” Minna said, even though no one was listening.

“Couldn't we arrive just once at your grandparents' without a battle?” Martha sighed.

“Why do we even have to go?” Mathilde whined. “Father doesn't like it, either.”

“Of course your father likes it.”

“No, he doesn't.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Then why isn't he here?”

“Because he's meeting with Dr. Fliess,” Martha said. “Now, no more discussion.”

The conductor suddenly veered off the wide expanse of the Ring, crossing the invisible boundary from the Sixth District to Leopoldstadt, the traditional Jewish section. Once an overcrowded ghetto, it was now a modest to middling neighborhood where Sigmund's parents still lived in a slightly run-down but genteel apartment. The abrupt jog of the horses threw the group back into their seats and stilled the simmering argument. When they finally neared the building, Minna signaled the driver to stop. Amalia was standing in the doorway, as usual, waiting for Sigmund.

Of all Amalia's seven children, Freud was the obvious favorite. As Sigmund had told Minna in Switzerland, he knew he was privileged, even as a young child, and the household was organized accordingly. Any conflicts within the family were resolved unequivocally in Sigmund's favor. Amalia treated him as gifted, as a prince, as someone who would bring the family great fame and fortune, and not one member of the family disputed Sigmund's preferential treatment.

Minna stepped from the omnibus, clasping the hem of her dress and pulling it over the tops of her high black boots. Wisps of hair fluttered from her hat, and her skirt billowed with the brusque wind. The children silently scrambled out after her and dutifully greeted their grandmother, who barely acknowledged them. Martha gave her mother-in-law a kiss on the cheek.

“Hello, dears,” Amalia said, impatiently lifting her beaky chin, her dark eyes searching for her son. “Where's Sigi?”

“I'm sorry, Mother. He's in a conference and won't be able to join us.”

Martha gave Minna a knowing look as Amalia turned her back on all of them, bit her thin lower lip, and climbed purposely back up the stairs. She's impossible, Minna thought.

When they entered the parlor, Jakob, Freud's father, was sitting in his armchair reading a newspaper, puffing on his pipe. He smiled, rose from his chair, clapping an arm around each of the children. He was a tall, good-looking man, and Minna was fond of him, even though she knew Sigmund found him an embarrassment.

But the children adored him. He pulled out a cigar box filled with cards he had bought from street hawkers and let the children choose from a variety of pictures—frog jockeys riding enormous rats, cat princesses at a ball, elves playing ring a ring o' roses. In addition, he had postcards picturing the emperor flying above the clouds like a winged deity, his puffy white hair and rosy skin making him look like a strawberry ice, topped with whipped cream.

“Let's all sit down, shall we?” Jakob said, ignoring Amalia's irritation about Sigmund's absence. The dinner table, set for ten, was layered like a woman's petticoat, with a white undercloth, a runner down the center, and several lace overlays. The smell of sauerbraten
, Zwiebelkuchen
, and
Blatten mit Kraut
brought the children to the table. But the combination of odors made Minna queasy.

“I hired this new girl—maddeningly pathetic,” Amalia said, sitting up ramrod straight, sipping her soup. “She can't cook or clean. I've a good mind to get rid of her tonight. Although, heaven knows, we don't have the money to hire anyone better.”

Minna and Martha shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Amalia casually insulted Jakob in front of the children.

“Even with all his crazy schemes—stockpiling this or that—we used to at least have enough for decent help, but now he just sits around borrowing money and—”

“I have some exciting news,” Martha interrupted.

“News?” said Amalia.

“Sigmund was nominated for
ausserordentlicher Professor
!”

Minna laid down her fork. “He was? When? Why didn't he tell me?”

“I'm sure he assumed
I
would tell you, my dear,” Martha said, looking at her sister with the slightest hint of a smile. Minna, at a loss for words, poured herself another glass of wine and nibbled weakly at her dinner. When dessert was served, she pushed away the cream-filled torte.

“Aren't you going to eat your sweet?” Martha asked.

“You have it,” Minna said, sliding the plate toward her sister.

“Well, it's a shame to waste it,” Martha said, forking the creamy lumps into her mouth.

•   •   •

W
hen they returned home, Minna went directly to her room, exhausted and baffled. How could he not have told her? Something so momentous, so important to him. She lay down on the bed, sinking her head into the pillow. She needed to rest. When she awoke, it was dark and she realized she had slept for hours. At one point, the maid stuck her head in the room and Minna vaguely remembered telling her, “Go away! I'm sick.” After that she was left alone.

When she was finally able to drag herself out of bed, she filled the tub and sank into the warm water, thinking that this was the arsenic hour downstairs, the time when the children required the most attention. They were tired and cranky, needing help with their studies, then baths and supper—sniping at each other, vying for her attention, and then scrambling to the table, hungry as little piglets. She dried herself slowly by the fire, then climbed back into bed. She couldn't help it. She wasn't leaving her room.

Sigmund had been so aloof and dismissive these past few weeks it had been torturous. How strange to get the silent treatment from the self-proclaimed king of the talking cure. Several times she had swallowed her pride and tried to approach him, but he was impersonal and often closed himself up for days at a time either with Fliess or alone. She rationalized that he was under a lot of pressure with his dream book deadline. He was now working on it full-time, and it was all entangled with his self-analysis, the Oedipus complex, and his theories on the id, ego, and superego.

But even so, the distress of his cold shoulder was constant. She woke up with it and carried it around with her even when she was busy with the children. It took away her appetite and her ability to appreciate anything. Sometimes she would feel it throbbing in her neck and traveling down her arm. Other times, she clenched her teeth so hard she gave herself a migraine. Even reading was no respite. It could be her imagination, but more often than not, she worried that perhaps he was tiring of her.

The only relief was to deaden the brain with gin. What the hell, Martha was addicted to laudanum and Sigmund was addicted to nicotine and cocaine.

She put on her nightdress, opened the windows, and inhaled the fresh air. The sky had turned from silvery lilac to a darker shade of purple and then black. She pulled the bottle of gin from under her bed and poured herself a large shot and then another . . . and another until she felt something stir inside her akin to a small firestorm. What was she doing, sitting around waiting for him to summon her? What happened to her backbone and resolve? Did he think she would take this sort of treatment forever? No one in her right mind would put up with this behavior. She thought about it for a moment. Well, then, if he wasn't so inclined to talk to her, she would talk to him.

She threw on her robe, thought better of it, changed into a skirt and blouse, and combed her hair. Then she rinsed out her mouth—her breath still reeked of booze. Just thinking about the confrontation filled her with exhilaration. She marched out the door and down the stairs.

The door to Freud's study was ajar, and Minna entered without knocking. She found him at his desk, his elbow leaning on a pile of papers. The usual haze of smoke clouded the air and the ashtrays were spilling over with snubbed-out cigars.

He looked up, startled.

“Minna?” His face was flushed and sweating and he had deep, puffy circles around his eyes. She hesitated.

“Are you unwell?”

“I'm afraid I have a problem with a patient. . . .” he said. There was a pause as he looked up at her. “I think Wilhelm has caused serious injury.”

“What happened?” She wasn't surprised that that lunatic Fliess had finally made a grave error.

The patient's name was Emma Eckstein. Minna knew that she was the daughter of a socially prominent family in Vienna. Freud told her that the young woman had originally come to him seeking help for mild depression and stomach ailments. He diagnosed her as having symptoms related to mild hysteria, and then consulted with Fliess. The complications arose when Fliess determined that all her suffering was nasal related, and he proceeded to perform a long and disfiguring operation that removed a chunk of her nose.

“I blame myself for allowing him to operate on her. After Wilhelm went back to Berlin, the young woman's family contacted me, concerned that she was still in severe discomfort. By the time I examined her, pus and blood were oozing through the binding and there was a putrid smell emanating from the infected wound. I was fearful rot had set in.”

“Good God,” Minna said, somehow taking perverse pleasure, not in the girl's pain, but in Fliess's ineptitude.

“I immediately called in a specialist. He took one look at the girl and reopened the incision. And do you know what he found?”

“What?” Minna asked, leaning in toward him.

“Long threads in her nasal cavity from a wad of gauze that had been left inside the wound. The surgeon told me it was a dirty business to clean up the bloody mess and that Wilhelm had gone against all orthodox practice—he might have killed her.”

“I'm so sorry,” Minna said, relishing Fliess's comeuppance. The man was a moron, and Sigmund had to see it.

“What a disaster. I'm even having nightmares about the poor girl. Sit down, I want you to hear this,” he said, his formal, impersonal demeanor gone.

Minna obeyed, sitting down at the end of the sofa, her eyes fixed on his face. She had been teetering on the edge of his life, and now she was his confidante once again.

“In my dream, I'm at a party in a large hall. One of the guests is a woman named Irma, who is obviously Emma. I take her aside to scold her for not following my medical advice. She argues that she's still in pain and it's more severe than ever, and I worry that perhaps I overlooked something. At that point, I examine her throat and it's covered in grayish scabs. Many of my colleagues are at the party, including Breuer and the children's pediatrician, Oskar Rie, who, it turns out, had actually given the young woman a dirty injection of trimethylamine. In my dream, the only one of my friends who is helpful is Dr. Fliess, and he assures me that it's not my fault.”

Minna didn't say anything at first. It was obvious Sigmund was trying to vindicate his beloved Fliess and reassure himself that neither he nor Fliess had done anything wrong. But his insistence that Fliess was not at fault, even in a dream, bewildered her.

“I think this is all Wilhelm's fault,” Minna argued. “And, frankly, I can't understand why you don't see it. The man left gauze in the wound and then sewed it up.”

“That's not entirely fair,” Sigmund countered. “I should have never urged Wilhelm to perform the operation here in Vienna, where he couldn't follow up.”

Minna didn't feel like arguing. Sooner or later, Sigmund would see that Fliess was incompetent. She continued to watch him pace the room and listened as he analyzed his dream. It was clear the whole experience had shocked him. In view of all of this, her complaints seemed unimportant at the moment. And, in any event, here he was, taking her back into his confidence, and wasn't that what she wanted, after all?