Death And The Maiden

27

Professor Freud reached out and touched an ancient figurine, one of many occupying the desk space between his books and his writing materials. The movement was quick and repeated, like the superstitious ritual of an obsessive.

‘Are you acquainted with Professor Saminsky?’ asked Liebermann.

‘Daniel Saminsky?’ Freud’s face was impassive. ‘Yes, he studied in Heidelberg and was greatly influenced by Erb.’

‘I was introduced to him recently.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I was unimpressed.’

Freud drew on his cigar and opened his mouth, releasing a ring of smoke. ‘He wrote a rather unsympathetic review of my dream book.’

‘Yes. I remember.’

‘And I must admit that since then, on those rare occasions when our paths have crossed, I have been disinclined to exchange civilities. His publications are few but he once wrote a book about diet, exercise, and their effect on the nervous system. If my memory serves me correctly, he championed a certain type of nut-oil and regular sea air. The late empress, a woman easily persuaded by any medical work containing a whole chapter devoted to enemas, consulted him on several occasions. I very much doubt whether his interventions were effective, but in due course he was honoured by the palace.’

‘He lives in a very fine house up in Hietzing.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Freud, smiling. ‘That’s what an invitation to the palace can do for you. A physician who has attended the royal family can expect to see his practice thrive — a stampede of society ladies will beat a path to his door. This would be true even if he prescribed nothing but ground shoe leather.’ The professor’s expression became more thoughtful. ‘Still, I can’t really criticise Saminsky. We are all, to a greater or lesser extent, dependent on patronage, especially us Jews. I would never have been made professor extraordinarius without a little help from Bocklin.’

Liebermann didn’t know anybody called Bocklin in the academic, medical or political hierarchies. The only Bocklin he knew of was Arnold Bocklin, the symbolist painter.

‘Who?’

‘Bocklin. You must know Bocklin. He’s best known for The Isle of the Dead.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Liebermann, bemused. ‘How could Arnold Bocklin have acted on your behalf? Besides, I thought he was dead.’

‘He is dead. He came to my aid — indirectly, as it were. Have I not told you the story?’ The professor offered his young disciple a third cigar. ‘Nothnagel and Krafft-Ebing recommended me for the position of associate professor years ago, but the council of the faculty rejected their proposal and I was passed over.’

‘Why did that happen?’

‘Oh, because of my views on sexuality — and my race.’ Freud sat back in his chair. ‘I was passed over again in ninety-eight and ninety-nine. The following year all the names put forward were ratified, with one exception. Mine! I had never considered patronage as a solution. But with a family to feed and bills to pay, the pleasures afforded by high-minded disdain were diminishing. I spoke to my old teacher, Exner, who informed me that the minister on the council was being prejudiced against me.’

‘By who?’

‘To this day I have no idea. Exner advised that I should seek some … counter-influence.’

‘With respect, Herr Professor,’ said Liebermann, scratching his head. ‘What has all this got to do with Bocklin?’

Freud requested patience by lifting his finger.

‘I have never been personally acquainted with people of power. The only contact I have ever had with that class has been professional. Subsequently, I let some of my patients, particularly those possessing wealth or title, know of my predicament. It wasn’t an easy thing for me to do, and I felt distinctly uneasy. One of these patients, a very formidable baroness, approached the minister and struck a bargain with him. You see, he was anxious to attain a work by Bocklin — The Castle Ruin — for the new modern gallery. Now, as luck would have it, The Castle Ruin was owned by the baroness’s aunt. My patient mediated between minister and aunt, and after three months the old lady agreed to part with her picture. Shortly after, the baroness found herself next to the minister at a dinner party, and she was the first to hear that he had sent the necessary document pertaining to my associate professorship for the emperor to sign. The next day, she burst into my office and cried “I’ve done it! ”’

Freud stubbed out his cigar and his mouth twisted before he continued. ‘Congratulations and bouquets rained down on me as if His Majesty had officially recognised the role of sexuality in mental illness, the council of ministers had confirmed the importance of dreams, and the necessity for a psychoanalytic treatment of hysteria had been passed in parliament with a two-thirds majority. Colleagues who had previously crossed the street to avoid me now bowed, even at a distance.’ Freud lit another cigar. ‘To make one’s way in the world, we all have to make compromises. Saminsky, me and, in time, even you.’

Vienna! Liebermann thought. How was it that the most modern and forward-looking city in the world could be so corrupt!

‘We shall see,’ said Liebermann.

Freud shook his head. The old man’s expression was not disapproving, but full of pity. ‘A doctor with too many scruples can’t make a decent living. And a Jewish doctor must be especially resourceful.’ His face brightened with mischief. ‘Have you heard the one about Kaplan? No? Good. So Kaplan goes to see his doctor, Birnbaum, for a check-up. After examining his patient, Birnbaum says, “I’m sorry, Herr Kaplan, but I have bad news. You only have six months to live.” Kaplan is horrified. He buries his head in his hands and replies, “That’s terrible. Moreover, I have a confession to make: I can’t afford to pay your bill.” Birnbaum responds immediately: “Very well, Herr Kaplan, I’ll give you a year to live.”’

Freud fixed his inquisitorial gaze on Liebermann. An opinion was required.

‘Yes,’ said Liebermann. ‘Most amusing.’ But he was unable to give his mentor a sincere smile.

When Liebermann returned to his apartment he found a letter waiting for him from Gustav Mahler. The director had managed to obtain an original piece of writing by the author of the scurrilous Deutsche Zeitung article and wanted Liebermann to examine it as a matter of urgency. Liebermann sighed and composed a brief apologetic response. The earliest he could keep an appointment at the opera house would be the following Monday. He knew that the director would not like this, but there was nothing he could do. Reluctantly, he sealed the envelope and left it on the bureau for his serving man to post in the morning.