A waiter offered the baron a salmon canape, which he refused, eager to hear the Englishman.
“…On the one hand depth, power, and directness of expression as our most individual gift, and on the other, the great secret of our superiority in so many spheres, namely, our inborn tendency to follow nature honestly and faithfully.”
“Very true,” said one of his acolytes, which roused a rumble of general approval.
When the time comes, thought Von Triebenbach, we shall certainly be able to depend on the English.
30
PROFESSOR FREUD WAS ALMOST hidden in a dense cloud bank of cigar smoke. He had been talking at length about the psychological differences between conscious and unconscious processes. As the exposition proceeded, Liebermann was distracted by a curious fantasy. It was playing, like a Greek drama, in the penumbral outer circle of his mind. In this fantasy, he-or someone very much like him-was a neophyte in an ancient sect, consulting a spirit oracle that was made manifest in the semi-opaque twisting veils that floated up from a gold incense bowl…
“Everything conscious is subject to a process of wearing away, while what is unconscious is relatively unchangeable. Look at these antiquities.” Freud passed his hands over the figurines that stood guard on his desk, among which Liebermann spied a winged Sphinx, a brachycephalic dwarf, and a falcon-headed deity. His fantasy receded.
“They are, in fact,” continued Professor Freud, “objects that were found concealed in the tombs of Egypt. The oldest here is nearly three thousand years old. Yet their burial has been the cause of their preservation. So it is with an unconscious memory-it is protected beneath the superficial sedimentation of the psyche. Think of Pompeii. Was it really destroyed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79? Not at all. The destruction of Pompeii is only just beginning, now that it has been discovered and dug up!”
Freud cut another cigar and offered it to his companion, but Liebermann declined. If he attempted to keep up with the old man, then they would both be rendered invisible by the intensifying dun fog.
Freud's extemporization had been detailed and extended. Liebermann was reminded of the professor's Saturday lectures: it was Freud's habit to deliver them without notes, yet they were always intricately argued and perfectly structured. Realizing that the great psychoanalyst might start discoursing again and continue for at least another half hour, Liebermann thought it wise to take advantage of the interruption. The old man struck a match and drew on his corona.
“Professor?” Freud's penetrating eyes peered out from a tawny cloud. “You have written a great deal about the appearance of symbols in dreams, and I was wondering whether you would be willing to examine a certain emblem that I have chanced upon in the course of my… my work.”
“Of course,” said Freud. “Although in the matter of dream interpretation, as you will appreciate, symbols do not occur with a permanently fixed meaning like the grammalogues in shorthand.”
“This symbol did not occur in a dream,” said Liebermann impassively. Freud's stare remained constant-his eyes were two points of fixed concentration. “I suspect,” Liebermann continued, “that it is a sacred image of some description-an ideogram. Given your extensive knowledge of the ancient world and its cultures, I hoped that you might be able to identify it.”
The professor assumed a transparently counterfeit expression of modesty and muttered, “Well, perhaps.”
Liebermann stood and walked to the desk. “May I?” He gestured toward a fountain pen.
Freud nodded and took a sheet of headed notepaper from his top drawer. Liebermann drew a simple cross and added ninety-degree “arms” at each extremity. When he had completed the drawing, he pushed it toward the professor, who considered the design for a few moments and exclaimed, “Yes, I have seen it before. It appears on certain Egyptian artifacts, but I believe it is more commonly associated with the Indian subcontinent.”
“And what is it, exactly?”
“I don't know. But I have in my possession a very informative volume on the Indo-European script that will probably tell us.” Freud rose and moved over to his bookcase. He ran a tobacco-stained index finger along a row of large volumes on the subject of archaeology. “Where is it, now? I'm sure it's here somewhere.” He reversed the movement. “Ah! Here we are-tucked away between Evans and Schliemann.” The book that he removed was small, thick, and somewhat battered. Its spine was broken and the cover boards flapped open like a double door.
Freud's whole appearance suddenly changed. He emitted a heavy sigh and an invisible yoke settled onto his shoulders. He seemed to shrink in on himself.
“Professor?” Liebermann inquired solicitously.
The old man stroked the distressed binding of the book and shook his head. “This book-it belonged to a dear friend.” Freud pointed at a photographic portrait on the walclass="underline" a handsome young man, with dark hair and soft, shadowy eyes. “Fleischl-Marxow.”
Liebermann had often wondered who the young man was and had assumed, wrongly, that he must be a distant relative.
“We worked together in Brucke's laboratory at the Physiological Institute. He had a first-class mind-truly brilliant. We had such conversations: philosophy, art, science, and literature! We discussed everything. And he was such a generous soul… When I ran out of money (which was all too often in those days), Fleischl always came to the rescue. During the course of his laboratory work he contracted an infection, which necessitated the amputation of his right thumb. The operation wasn't a success. He subsequently suffered from neuromas and required more surgery. But it was no good-the pain got worse and worse. In the end it proved quite intolerable, and he became addicted to morphia.
“At that time I was undertaking some research into the medicinal properties of cocaine, the alkaloid that Niemann isolated from the coca plant. I chanced upon a report in The Detroit Medical Gazette suggesting that addiction to morphia could be treated by substitution with cocaine-which was supposed to be less harmful. I was overjoyed. Can you imagine? What a discovery! I encouraged Fleischl to try this new treatment. And he did. Indeed, my friend clutched at the drug like a drowning man…”
Freud shook his head again
“He simply replaced one addiction with another. In three months he had spent eighteen hundred marks-a full gram a day! A hundred times more than the recommended dose! He became delirious, suffered from hallucinations, and became suicidal. He could not sleep, and occupied himself through the long and painful hours of every night making a study of Sanskrit. I don't know why, but he made me promise that I would never betray his secret passion. I suppose this was just paranoia-another side effect of my wonderful treatment! Before he died, he suggested that I take this book, so that others would not know of his activities. Well, what does it matter now? I'm sure he would forgive me this small betrayal of his confidence.”
The professor's head was bowed. He stroked the book again, and attempted to press the split spine together.
“You were only trying to help your friend,” said Liebermann.
Freud lifted his head. “But I made him worse.”
“You were acting in good faith. In reality, isn't that all that can be asked of any doctor?”
Freud smiled weakly. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I did not mean to-”