Freud's Mistress (5 page)

“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 continued, “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, “
t
hat'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.

A
ll 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, Sophie, 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.

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.

•   •   •

O
ne 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.

“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.