Freud's Mistress Read Online Free

blessed with a gentle, oval face, pale complexion, and a Cupid’s bow upper lip that gave her demeanor just the right amount of allure. But now, after six pregnancies, she seemed blurred around the edges, and the only overall impression one got of her was fatigue.
    â€œI’ve been so worried about you,” Martha said, as she clasped Minna’s hand and led her into the apartment. Sophie, Oliver, and yet more children herded behind them, loitering in the hallway and shoving one another aside, trying to lead the way.
    They walked slowly through the stolid bourgeois apartment, past rosewood consoles, Biedermeier tables, fatigued Persian carpets, and draperies that trailed on the floor. There was a light smell of furniture oil and floor polish. The children followed behind, their sense of decorum gradually disintegrating. Oliver and Martin tore through the drawing room like little hellions, toppling a chair, while the girls yanked Minna’s sleeve, vying for her attention.
    Minna’s bedroom was small and oddly shaped, the former dressing area of the master suite with a long, narrow window over the bed. A jug of water was placed beside the washbasin, a gas lamp was on the dresser, and fresh, laundered sheets were laid out on the bed. There was a small fireplace, bordered with decorative tiles, and an ornate wooden wardrobe was squeezed into the corner.
    Martha led her into the room and pulled back the white muslin curtains, letting the soft afternoon light flood across the shiny wood floor. She poured a glass of water and handed it to Minna.
    â€œYou look thin, my dear. Are you eating well?” Martha asked, watching her sister thoughtfully as she sat on the edge of the bed.
    The two sisters still resembled each other—their eyes the same dark color, their noses straight, and their hair thick and wavy, although Minna inherited her father’s lean frame, while Martha was becoming the image of their plump, matronly mother. In their youth, the difference in their stature was not as apparent, but over the years, it had become more pronounced.
    There was a banging at the open door as eight-year-old Martin, the eldest Freud son, struggled in melodramatically with her suitcases. He might be handsome in a few years, Minna thought, but at the moment, he was gawky and slightly chubby, with a pronounced bruise under his right eye. Martha had often complained that the child was always getting into trouble, constantly coming home with skinned knees, black eyes, and ominous notes from other children’s mothers.
    â€œWhat happened to your eye?”
    â€œNothing,” he said. “How long are you staying?”
    â€œJust through dinner,” Minna answered.
    â€œReally?” he replied hopefully, giving Minna the distinct impression that the matter of the “maiden aunt” hadn’t yet been settled between his parents.

3
    I t’s lovely,” Martha said, admiring the fine fabric of a silk dinner gown that Minna was unpacking.
    â€œA gift from a former employer. Well, not exactly a gift. The baroness thought it was outdated and told me to get rid of it,” Minna said, smiling. Then a childhood memory washed over her. She and Martha were planning for the first social event of the season. It was a different time and place, and it all seemed so frivolous now.
    Martha was eighteen, and, in the eyes of her many suitors, female perfection—five feet two; a small, pretty face; dainty hands and feet. On this particularly splendid fall day, she had the rosy glow of a morning walk still on her cheeks and she looked pristine in her soft gray suit and matching boots. She and Minna made their way across the broad Ringstrasse, past St. Stephen’s and the opera house, and into the heart of the old city, where the family dressmaker had a small shop. The first “smart” party of the season was still months away, but Martha had already decided on the material for her gown: seven