“Stop that or you’ll break Dr. Freud’s furniture,” said Mary.
“You can’t give orders here. This is not your house,” said Diana, although she did stop. “Well, are we done?”
“Yes, you and I are,” said Freud. “But I would like to talk with your sister for a moment, privately. If I may?”
“All right,” said Diana. “But you won’t find anything interesting about her. She’s not mad at all. She’s as sane as sane can be.” With her usual disdain for the proprieties, she marched out of the room. The psychoanalyst closed the door behind her.
“I disagree with your sister, Fräulein,” he said, smiling. “I expect that I will find you as interesting as I find her, even if you are, as she insisted, boringly sane. I do not concern myself exclusively with madness, you know. My study is the human psyche, in all its forms and manifestations.” His smile was a little frightening, through all that beard. Not because it was unkind, but because there was a particular intensity to his expression, as though he were looking deeply into your self, or perhaps soul. Mary found it disconcerting.
“I see,” said Mary, although she did not. “And why do you wish to speak with me? Will you help us? Mrs. Norton indicated that you had agreed to help.”
“First, please do sit. We will begin by discussing the practicalities. I see that you are a very practical young woman, an admirable quality. And then, if you do not object, I would like to ask you a few questions.”
Mary sat on the chaise lounge since there was nowhere else, while Freud seated himself in a much less comfortable rolling chair.
“Your sister is certainly an interesting case,” he began. He seemed to be frowning, and at first Mary wondered what in the world Diana had done wrong this time—had she made him angry? But no, she realized a moment later. He was merely puzzled, and it was the thick beard and eyebrows that made him look so formidable. Before he continued, he stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray.
“It will not be difficult to convince the asylum administration that she is mad. She is impulsive, irrational. Her language is most inappropriate. She showed me where she had previously cut herself. And yet, Fräulein, I do not believe that she is truly mad. She is not normal—certainly she is not normal. But she does not seem to suffer from her condition. Her nightmares give her no anxiety—indeed, she seems to enjoy them. She feels no guilt about expressing every thought and wish as it comes to her. She does not feel the need to conform to societal expectations, and her failure to do so does not worry her in the slightest. Indeed, if what she tells me is true, her mentality and behavior give her certain advantages. Of course she lied to me—it is part of her nature to lie. But I flatter myself that I can discriminate between the truth and a deliberate falsehood. While I spoke with Miss Hyde, it seemed to me that she was perfectly well-adjusted, that her actions made sense and would not be blamable, in a society different from ours. It seemed to me that it was our society which was at fault, rather than your sister.”
“But this is the society we live in, not another,” said Mary. “Its rules and conventions exist for a reason. They are the basis of civility, of concord. They allow us to live together as social beings. Diana, if you will forgive my saying so, Dr. Freud, is a pain in the arse.”
DIANA: You said “arse”!
JUSTINE: Did you actually use the word “arse” in a conversation with Dr. Freud?
MARY: Well, I’m not proud of myself, but yes, I did.
DIANA: Mary said “arse”! Mary said “arse” to the great Dr. Freud!
MARY: And in retrospect, I think I was entirely justified.
“I’m quite certain she is,” said Freud. “Yet I’m also certain that she’s not hysterical, nervous, or neurasthenic. Narcissistic, yes. But without any actual sociopathology. She does, for example, love you, despite her protestations to the contrary. Yet you seem so opposite in temperament. And you do not share the same name. Do you have different fathers?”
“Different mothers, actually,” said Mary. “But my father—you could say he took on a different identity when consorting with her mother. It was as though he became another person.”
“I see,” said Freud, leaning back in his chair. “I have heard of such cases—respectable gentlemen living two lives, even having entirely different residences and families. I am familiar with your father by reputation, Fräulein. He was said to be an excellent man in his field, if a bit unorthodox. But a professional reputation does not stop a man from being human—fallible, as we all are. Indeed, the higher a man holds his head in society, the lower he may descend in his secret life, as though the psyche is attempting to achieve a sort of balance, an equilibrium. I have long thought of the human mind as a battlefield, the site of a war between man’s highest and lowest, most civilized and most primitive, impulses. Inside each of us is the primordial child, who wants only love, food, the fulfillment of its desires. It acts out of need, anger, the impulse of the moment.”
“Well, that describes Diana precisely!” said Mary.
“And the adult, who knows not to give in to those impulses,” said Freud. “You, for example, Fräulein, seem to me an admirable example of restraint, although your sister described it in slightly different terms.”
DIANA: I said you had a stick up your arse!
MARY: You just wanted to say “arse” again, didn’t you?
“Well,” said Mary a little defensively, “I’ve had a great deal of responsibility since I was a child. After my mother went mad, I had a household to run—bills to pay, people who depended on me. I couldn’t go around doing or saying whatever I wanted, could I? There were obligations to fulfill, duties to discharge. . . .”
“Yes, your sister told me about your mother’s illness, which interests me a great deal. And she—your sister, I mean. Is she also one of those duties?”
“Unfortunately!” Mary had not meant to sound quite so vehement, but it was true, wasn’t it? “She really is the most . . .”
“Then why do you hesitate to send her into the Maria-Theresa Krankenhaus?” He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, looking at her intently.
“Because she’s my sister, and I’m supposed to take care of her.” Obviously. Why was he asking her this? Surely how she felt about the issue was irrelevant. Diana was her responsibility, whether she liked it or not.
Freud smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Ah, Fräulein, you are wondering why I am interrogating you in such an annoying, impolite fashion, are you not? I have found that in the pursuit of psychological truth, one cannot remain polite. One is frequently annoying to one’s patients.”
But she wasn’t his patient, was she? “Of course I would not have used those words if you had not inquired . . .” Mary began.
“No, of course not. You see, you lie differently from your sister. She will lie to get what she wants, without hesitation or remorse. You will lie to maintain the veneer of respectability and politeness, which is all that separates us from beasts. No, do not feel as though you need to respond—I will do as you wish and commit your sister to the madhouse. You understand that I am risking my career in doing so. I do this not for you, and not even for my friend Irene, but because I know a little of Abraham Van Helsing, and what I know, I do not like. He is a dangerous man—a man who pursues science for power rather than the dispassionate accumulation of knowledge. A man like that must be stopped. I do not wish to put your sister in danger, but it is clear to me that she will not feel the danger, as you and I might—to her, it will be yet another adventure. I will give her three days in the Krankenhaus. After that time, I will officially transfer her to another hospital—really, of course, into your keeping. I hope she succeeds in finding and establishing contact with this young woman, Fräulein Van Helsing.”
Suddenly, he smiled. It was as though sunlight had unexpectedly broken through storm clouds. “And if you and your sister stay in Vienna for any length of time, I would like to see you again. It seems to me, Fräulein, that each of you has something
the other lacks—as though your sister had received half the human psychic apparatus, and you the other. Is it true, as she tells me, that you never cry?”
“Not everyone goes around bawling at the slightest provocation,” said Mary indignantly. How dare Diana have discussed her with this rude, provoking man?
“And you never thought of striking another person in anger? Or perhaps of kicking an inanimate object, such as a table when you have stubbed your toe upon it?”
“Why in the world would I do such a thing?” asked Mary. “It would do me no good, and would certainly not injure the table. Indeed, I am likely to hurt myself again, doing something so foolish. Although . . .”
“Yes?” said Freud.
“Well, I do think of slapping Diana! When she’s being particularly impossible, you know.” She hated to admit it, but it was true.
“Ah yes, Diana.” The psychoanalyst seemed almost sympathetic. “Of course she would bring out your more primitive impulses. And you, I believe, restrain and guide her, despite her resistance.”
DIANA: What utter bollocks.
“I certainly try,” said Mary. “What exactly are you implying, Doctor? I feel as though there’s some purpose behind this interrogation, but I cannot tell what it is.”
“I wish it were so simple, Fräulein,” he said. “No, this is merely an idea on my part—not even that, but the ghost of an idea that vanishes when I try to think of it directly. We speak about man—the I, the ego. And yet I believe that singular I is composed of disparate entities, at war with one another. As I mentioned, the human psyche is a battlefield. Those who are most wounded come to me, or end up in places like the Maria-Theresa Krankenhaus. It seems to me that you and your sister . . . No, I cannot come to conclusions on so little evidence. You will need to come back, and then perhaps we can speak again. But now you will be wanting your luncheon, and my wife is expecting me for mine. Tomorrow morning, I shall take your sister to the Krankenhaus—I will telephone Irene this afternoon to make plans. I hope that I shall see you again as well, Fräulein Jekyll, while you are in Vienna. And remember, when you have the time, I would consider it an honor if you would tell me the story of your childhood, of your dreams.”
Mary rose. Of course she had no intention whatsoever of allowing herself to be psychoanalyzed! “Thank you, Dr. Freud,” she said, politely but without enthusiasm. If this was psychoanalysis—poking your nose into the business of others—she wanted no part of it. Why in the world would someone as intelligent as Irene Norton find it either interesting or useful?
MRS. POOLE: Quite right, miss. A man should know the difference between right and wrong, and if he doesn’t, having some sort of complex—or whatever word the psychological gentlemen use—should not excuse him.
BEATRICE: But Dr. Freud has some remarkable insights into human character. Have you read his new book on the interpretation of dreams?
JUSTINE: No, do you have a copy?
BEATRICE: It’s on my bedside table. You are welcome to borrow it at any time. He argues that all of our dreams are meaningful—that if we interpret them correctly, we can understand what we truly hope for and desire. For example, what did you dream of last night?
JUSTINE: A lake, I believe. I could see myself reflected in it, but then the clouds gathered over me, and suddenly there was a great storm. It started to rain, and I realized that I was cold, and hungry, and lost. And the face in the water was not my face anymore. . . .
BEATRICE: The lake is a symbol of the feminine. Perhaps it represents your mother, and the rain coming down represents the male principle that disturbs the female? Rain is often a symbol of the father, and the storm clouds are of course associated with the father-god Zeus. So your father, Frankenstein, who sought to be a god, disturbed the feminine principle of creation, and what emerged was you, as you are now—a stranger to that other Justine.
CATHERINE: That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.
Freud merely smiled. “Well, I think we are done then, Fräulein. Shall we rejoin your sister?”
Mary nodded and rose. Thank goodness that was over with! Of course, now the difficult part would begin.
Out in the waiting room, Diana was sitting crossed-legged on the sofa. “Oh, you’re done, are you? Took you long enough.”
“You were wrong, Fräulein Hyde,” said Freud. He seemed to be glaring at her from under his eyebrows, but Mary could tell he was smiling. She rather liked him as a person, now that she knew him a little better. He resembled a tame bear that initially looked as though he might eat you up, but on closer acquaintance was considerably less intimidating. As for his theories—well, those were no concern of hers. She was interested in facts. Mr. Holmes believed in facts, not such vague hypotheses as to human nature. She wondered, indeed, what he would have thought of Dr. Freud’s analysis of Diana—and of her.
“Oh? How am I wrong?” Diana stood up and crossed her arms, like a defiant child.
“I found your sister quite as interesting as yourself.”
Diana shrugged as though she did not care, although Mary could tell she was offended. “Whatever. Can we go? I’m hungry.”
“Yes, I believe this matter is settled,” said Freud. “Hannah, can you tell your mistress that I will telephone her later today to discuss the details?”
“Of course, Herr Doktor.” She put her book aside and drew on her gloves.
“Ah, Goethe,” said Freud. “My favorite also.”
“Is that how you pronounce it?” asked Diana. “Justine is always reading him. I thought it would sound more like ‘goat,’ with a ‘th’ at the end. That’s how it’s spelled, anyway.”
“Thank you,” said Mary to the psychoanalyst, ignoring Diana as much as possible. She was the one who was like a goat, always hungry, eating whatever she came across. Eating it or climbing on it! Mary held out her hand.
Rather than shaking it, Freud leaned down and kissed it. Well, she supposed that was how things were done on the continent! She would have preferred a firm English handshake.
“Until tomorrow,” he said. “It has been a pleasure, Fräulein.”
“Likewise, Doctor,” she said, although she was not entirely sure it had. However much she might like him personally, she had no wish to be mentally dissected in that fashion.
JUSTINE: Mary, would you ever go back to Vienna, to be psychoanalyzed by Dr. Freud? He might, perhaps, tell you some interesting things about yourself.
MARY: He can’t tell me anything I don’t already know. That idea of his, about the different parts of the psyche, reminds me of what I was told in Styria by—
CATHERINE: Oh no, you don’t! We haven’t gotten to that part of the narrative yet. I’ve told you over and over about the need to maintain suspense. You are the worst characters ever.
MARY: We’re not characters. We’re people.
JUSTINE: Although in a sense we are both, are we not? Since we have allowed Catherine to write about us in this way.
CATHERINE: Allowed? If I remember correctly, I was asked to write an account of our adventures. At a meeting, with all members present.
“You see, it’s impregnable,” said Greta.
Justine looked up at the Maria-Theresa Krankenhaus. Unfortunately, she had to agree with Greta. The mental hospital was a rectangle of gray stone. It rose sheer for three stories—there was no ornamentation, nothing one could climb, not even a drainpipe. The windows were barred on the top two floors. No vegetation grew over its forbidding facade, and even the grounds were absolutely bare, with no trees or shrubs to hide behind, only closely clipped lawn. It was surrounded by a high stone wall, spiked at the top. The building had two entrances, as Greta had described—front and back, both guarded by armed men. There was only one gate leading into the grounds, and that too was guarded.
“I could break into the Hoffburg and steal the Emperor’s handkerchief from under his pillow more easily than I could get in there,” said Greta, shaking her head. She was once again dressed in her shabby masc
uline attire, more appropriate than a maid’s costume for traveling around the city.
“Does he keep his handkerchief under his pillow?” asked Justine, lowering the binoculars she had been using to survey the hospital grounds.
“He does, actually,” said Greta. Suddenly, she grinned, and Justine could see the street urchin she had been behind the carefully trained maid. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”
Justine could not help smiling in response. “Very well, I shall restrain my curiosity.”
DIANA: Wait a minute, you were telling Mary’s story, in her voice and everything. And now you’re telling Justine’s.
CATHERINE: Well, Mary wasn’t there, so I can’t tell this part from her perspective, can I?
DIANA: It just seems . . . weird.
CATHERINE: That’s because you don’t read modern literature, just those penny dreadfuls and your theater rags. Nowadays all the best writers experiment with literary technique, like stream of consciousness.
DIANA: Are you saying you’re one of the best writers? Because I don’t think—oh, don’t you try to bite me! Your Astarte stories aren’t exactly Shakespeare, you know.
JUSTINE: Catherine, I seem to remember that Greta and I were speaking in French.
CATHERINE: If you want this section to be in French, you’ll have to write it yourself.
“Perhaps I shall tell you another time how I learned where the Emperor keeps his handkerchief!” said Greta, in French, for that was the language she and Justine were speaking. “It is, at any rate, an amusing anecdote. But now I think we had better return to Madame Norton and let her know that we have found our observation post.”
Despite its formidable appearance, the Maria-Teresa Krankenhaus was located in an ordinary if somewhat disreputable section of Vienna, outside of the Ringstrasse, to the north of the Danube. Around its high stone walls were the usual buildings and shops one finds in a city. Across the street from the hospital, Justine and Greta had found an inn that had a tavern on the first floor and rented rooms on the second and third. From a third-floor room that faced the front of the building, they could see quite clearly into the hospital grounds.
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 22