Dreaming for Freud by Sheila Kohler Page B

depression, and menstrual cramps and how he had sent her to Fliess who had removed the turbinate bone from her nose and transformed her entire face with the operation. He has let Fliess operate on his own nose twice. His operation on Dora Breuer, too, was most successful. The young girl who, come to think of it, is about the same age as his new patient, was very grateful. But poor Emma will never look the same again. Yet the dear woman does not seem to hold it against either of them, and indeed, is particularly interested in psychoanalysis.
    “But you
are
on father’s side. He has brought me here, and he is paying you to get me to do as he wishes, to go along with his plans. He is just using me as bait!” she says.
    “Your father has his intentions, no doubt, and I certainly have mine, but surely we have the same goal: your health and well-being and the cessation of your symptoms and your suffering. My goal is only to find the truth, a truth that you may not yet know or wish to recognize.”
    “But is it not a truth that is convenient for you and perhaps also for Father? Is it not a truth you
want
to believe?” She goes on, “What do you really think of Father? Do
you
trust him? Does it not just suit you like my mother to pretend to believe him? You must know all about his ailments. And now, if I have understood rightly, Mother suffers from the same shameful ailment, too, which is why we both have to go to stay in the big boring old hotel in Franzenbad to take the turbid baths and drink the acrid waters and sit at endless meals in the hotel dining rooms with all the other old, rich, sick people. Mother’s body is weeping, weeping because of my false father! And my own body weeps, too!” she admits.
    He listens to her words, watching her open and close her reticule and dip her fingers repeatedly inside. He is conscious of what she is saying, her fingers chattering, giving him their message wordlessly.
    “And you don’t think you might be responsible yourself for this?” he asks her.
    “What do you mean?” she asks.
    “Have you not perhaps been touching yourself for your own pleasure, your own hidden and secret desire, and causing this discharge that comes from such unhealthy practices? Can you admit to this? To be honest with yourself is good practice, I assure you.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she says angrily, her face very red, her eyes flashing as she sits up on the couch, reminding him again of his first love, Gisela Fluss, in her furor.
    “Was this not the reason why you have gone from one doctor to the next, afraid they might find your secret, your shameful secret of private pleasure, rather than their incompetence?” he asks, rather pleased with his powers of observation.
    As the girl leaves his room, dragging her foot, she does not even look up at him or acknowledge his presence in any way. She does not bother to shake his hand, let alone bob the little curtsey she has obviously been taught is polite with an adult in his position. He sighs and can only hope he has not said too much too fast, that she will come back.

VII
----
SECRETS
    S HE PUSHES OPEN THE DOOR slowly and looks inside the room. There is no one there. She goes into their well-polished and silent drawing room with its closed velvet curtains and well-dusted artificial hydrangeas on the mantelpiece. She stands still in her coat and hat and leather gloves, only the afternoon noises from the street coming to her. She goes over to the shiny grand piano and surveys the room. She bows to an imaginary and applauding audience. The audience applauds louder and louder as she takes off her gloves slowly, strips off her coat.
    She is giving a concert in a great concert hall. She is wearing a splendid green satin gown. She smiles and bows to the applauding audience and sits down very upright and opens up the shiny grand piano. She takes out her music, adjusts the height of the stool, and strikes the keys loudly with aplomb. She