Freud's Drawing Room

The frail-framed man lifted his legs and rested his back on the fainting couch. He folded his hands over his chest and sighed. The ceiling above was a spatter of blue and black. Its intricate pattern calmed his mind. Squinting to see the details through his round, wire-rimmed glasses proved to be a strain. He closed his eyes to relieve them. The faint smell of the cigar he had just snuffed out swirled about his head.

“Tell me of your childhood, Sigmund.”

Freud was surprised to hear the voice of his former colleague, Josef Breuer, but, he was always ready with an answer.

“Well, my father was the son of a Rabbi and a wool merchant. My mother’s name was, well, is: Amalia.”

“What more can you tell me of them?”

Sigmund squirmed on the couch, “They were both Slavic and Jewish, and we were all transports to Austria.”

“Yes, yes, but, what effect did they have on your childhood?”

“My father was twice widowed, and then he married my mother. She was the picture of beauty. Is that what you’re after?”

“You seem uncomfortable.”

Freud sat up on the edge of the tufted davenport.

“You want me to assign myself a complex and admit my undying love for mother, Josef? We analyzed ourselves years ago. Why again now?”

Josef’s eyes were gentle and unflinching. Freud’s were tense and probing. 

The men took a break from the session to smoke their cigars. They strolled about the confines of the room- trying not to bump into one other or knock a thing off a shelf. After some time, Breuer fixated on the large collection of Freud’s works. He cricked his neck to read the titles.

“How long did it take you to write On Cocaine?” 

“That undertaking sped by quickly.” Freud mused.

Josef laughed. Freud scowled. 

“Ah, Studies on Hysteria our greatest accomplishment! I have not given up on the power of hypnosis.” He turned abruptly, addressing Freud’s pensive stare. “Are you game?” 

Freud rolled his eyes but gave in to curiosity. 

Back on the couch, Sigmund felt a strange sense of urgency to jump up and run out of the room, but, he couldn’t.

Josef’s hands were warm on his temples. His voice was a soothing whisper.

“When I remove my hands from your face, you will be in a fully relaxed state of being. You will be free to speak directly from the recesses of your soul. There will be no barrier between your unconscious and conscious mind. Any thought that rises may be conveyed without the burden of self-awareness.”

Josef stepped back. He sat down in the chair beside the couch, just out of view. Quietly, he lit a cigar.

“Tell me of your childhood, Sigmund.”

Freud’s body felt like a part of the Persian rug that covered the sofa. He forgot about the complexities of the ceiling and the ache in his lower back.

"So, this is catharsis." Sigmund said to himself. He could see the full scope of his childhood before uttering a word.

“My father was too kind, too optimistic. I wanted him to stand up for himself, but he only smiled. I wanted him to fight, but he would only laugh. Why? Why was he so powerless? Why was he so weak?”

“Perhaps, laughter was his strength, Sigmund.”

“Yes, yes, you could be right. Oh, I don’t know. I’ve hated him for so long. It’s like a cold blanket that won’t warm me, but I haven’t another. My mother was his third wife, and, due to this, I was an uncle at birth. For some reason, it strikes me with humor now.” Freud laughed and laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. “It wasn’t so funny then. This nephew of mine, John, was slightly older than me, but I was his uncle. Regardless, we were inseparable friends! How strange to consider this now as I’m rotting and rotten.”

Josef waited and listened for the right moment to continue.

“Your mother was an exceptional woman. What would you like to say of her?”

Freud fell silent. His eyes welled with tears.

“She died 9 years ago. 1930. She was 95. Forgive me. It is still hard to speak of her. She was nothing less than a perfect woman. Her guidance and care will never leave me.”

Josef closed his eyes for a moment and then continued. 

“Do you feel that your mother idealized you to some degree? And you her?”

“What do you mean?” Freud shuddered as he asked the question.

“She referred to you as ‘Mein golderner Sigi’. It must be difficult to be the golden child.” He paused. “Your sister Anna has described your mother as ‘strict and domineering’. Was there a certain level of pressure involved in your relationship with your mother?”

Freud’s body stiffened like a corpse. He squeezed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. When he could, he spoke loudly and rapidly.

“What do you mean? No, no, no. I loved dear mother. She was never overbearing. She alone understood me. She knew I would achieve the greatness my father was too meek to pursue. She knew me better than I.” 

“Sigmund,” Josef interrupted, “you are allowed to connect with your true feelings. Human perfection is a myth which gives root to narcissism. Seeing the flaws of your mother will only endear her to you further.”

The curls of Josef’s cigar smoke drifted about the room. His words rested on Sigmund’s brow. 

“I think we have made sufficient progress. When I snap my fingers, you will return to a fully conscious state. I am proud of you, dear friend.”

Sigmund was so startled that he jumped up as if he weren’t a man of 83 years. He searched the room for Josef and found not even a trace of cigar smoke in the air. Josef had been dead for over a decade.

Am I going mad? No, no, I drifted off. Of course, a dream! I must write it down.

Sigmund felt a new sort of calm. He lit his cigar and hunted around for pen and paper. After his notations- oddly- he could not get the image of Moses out of his mind's eye, so, he sat down at his desk to wait and listen. A title entered his thoughts: Moses and Monotheism. He set about putting pen to paper for his final piece of writing.