Herr B.
Thirty-eight-year-old accountancy clerk.
Employed by a reputable firm with offices in the city center.
No previous history of psychiatric illness…
When Stekel brought his presentation to a close, there was some restrained applause and a grumbled vote of thanks. Freud then turned his gaze on Liebermann. The old man's eyes were dark brown and peculiarly lustrous.
“Herr Doctor?”
“Thank you, Herr Professor.”
Liebermann put on his spectacles and straightened his papers. “Gentlemen,” he began, “this evening I shall be describing the case of Herr B.-a thirty-eight-year-old accountancy clerk who was admitted onto a psychiatric ward at the General Hospital in early November. The circumstances surrounding his admission were somewhat dramatic. It seems that Herr B. had attempted to force his way into the Schonbrunn Palace in order to rescue Archduchess Marie-Valerie-who, he claimed, was being held there against her will. The police were called after an unfortunate incident involving the palace guard…”
As Liebermann became more confident, he spoke more freely and consulted his papers less. His audience appeared to be extremely interested, most notably the professor, whose attentive figure had become hazy behind an increasingly murky accumulation of cigar smoke.
When Liebermann began to describe Herr Beiber's dream, Freud's eyes widened, and he adopted a melodramatic pose. Like a hammy actor at the Court Theater, he pressed his right hand against his temple. Liebermann paused, expecting to be interrupted, but the old man remained silent. Adler too had raised a hand but only to obscure Freud's view of his mouth, which had twisted into a mocking smile.
Liebermann was relieved when he reached the conclusion of his presentation. The task had proved more demanding than he had anticipated, and the close scrutiny of Freud's inner circle had been unnerving. He was acutely aware that any minor slip of the tongue would be subject to psychoanalytic interpretation. In such company, all mistakes-however minor-would be revealing. Fortunately, his delivery had been steady and he had not even allowed himself to be distracted by Adler's irreverence.
When the applause had died down, the professor thanked Liebermann for a fascinating presentation and rang for the maid. She appeared carrying a large tray of coffee and cakes. Once the plates, napkins, and forks had been laid out, the atmosphere in the room immediately changed. The group relaxed and even engaged in some lighthearted banter. Stekel told an amusing story that hinged on a confusion of identities, and the professor was quick to respond with a joke of his own.
“Prague. Moscovitz the tailor is praying in the Old New Synagogue. Suddenly, there is a flash of light-the walls shake and a horrible figure with horns and a tail appears. The air smells of sulfur…” The professor drew on his cigar and paused for effect. “Moscovitz looks up, but continues with his prayers. The terrible figure shakes his fist and the ark tumbles to the ground. But Moscovitz is indifferent, and continues praying. ‘Hey, you,’ the terrifying figure shouts. ‘Are you not frightened?’ Moscovitz shrugs and shakes his head. Enraged, the terrifying figure lashes his tail-bricks fall. ‘Little Jew,’ says the terrifying figure, ‘do you know who I am?’ ‘Yes,’ Moscovitz replies, ‘I know exactly who you are-I've been married to your sister for the last thirty years!’ ”
As the gentle ripples of laughter subsided, the company stood up and stretched their legs. They milled aaround the table and in due course Liebermann found himself standing next to Freud, who was enjoying his second slice of guglhupf. The sponge was thick and moist, and exuded a sharp lemony fragrance. Before Freud could regale him with another one of his jokes-of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply-Liebermann seized the moment to ask a question that had occupied his mind for several days.
“Professor,” he said tentatively, “I was wondering whether I could trouble you for an opinion… on a theoretical matter.”
Freud fixed him with his penetrating stare. “Have you tasted this cake?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Good, isn't it?”
“Extremely.”
“I have a particular weakness for guglhupf.” Freud harpooned a bright yellow segment of sponge with the tines of his fork. “But you were saying… a theoretical matter?”
“Yes,” said Liebermann. “Do you think that the principles of dream interpretation can be applied to works of art?”
The segment of sponge did not reach Freud's mouth. Its journey came to an abrupt halt somewhere in the vicinity of his collarbone.
“That is a very interesting question.” The professor paused, swallowed, and placed his plate down on the edge of the table. He had suddenly lost interest in his guglhupf.
“In dreams,” the young doctor continued, “the contents of the unconscious-traumatic memories, desires, and so forth-are transformed. They appear in a disguised form. And, of course, by employing your techniques it is possible to establish their true meaning. Might we not consider a painting or sculpture as a kind of… creative dream?”
“Have you heard of Lermolieff-the Russian art connoisseur?” asked the professor.
“No.”
“Lermolieff was a pen name-he was really an Italian physician called Morelli. He caused a furor in the art galleries of Europe by questioning the authorship of many famous pictures after he had devised a method for establishing authenticity.” The professor pulled at his neatly trimmed beard. “Lermolieff insisted that attention should be diverted from the general impression of a picture, laying stress instead on the significance of minor details: like the drawing of fingernails, of the lobe of an ear, of halos and such unconsidered trifles that the negligent copyist is bound to overlook, but that every genuine artist executes in his own very distinctive style. Now, it seems to me that Lermolieff's method of inquiry is closely related to the technique of psychoanalysis. The psychoanalyst is accustomed to divining secrets from unnoticed features-from the rubbish heap, as it were, of our observations.” The professor reached for a cigar, lit it, and cleared his throat. “I can see no reason why the principles of our discipline cannot be applied to the interpretation of art. One might look for evidence of unconscious material that has-so to speak-broken through… Anomalies, perhaps? Distortions and symbolization… Indeed, a painting might be likened to a window through which an analyst might steal glimpses of the artist's unconscious mind.”
It was the answer that Liebermann had been hoping for.
The table clock chimed.
“Good heavens,” said Freud. “How time flies.”
The maid was called again, and when she had finished clearing the table, the company returned to their seats in order to discuss the case presentations. This final part of the evening was largely dedicated to a collective analysis of Herr Beiber's dream. Freud insisted that Liebermann should reiterate the main points, occasionally stopping him to ask seemingly obscure questions. “Are you sure Herr B. was five years old?” “How big were the wolves, exactly?” “Did one of the wolves have a tail?” And so on.
When Liebermann had finished describing the dream again, Freud invited those present to comment.
“It reminds me of a fairy story,” Stekel began. “Something from the Brothers Grimm, like Little Red Riding Hood. I believe that the appearance of wolves in children's stories is inextricably bound with the fear of being devoured.”
“It might be that the wolves-issuing from a cavernous space-are a substitution for a more fundamental fear-that of the vagina dentate,” added Reitler.
“Thus,” Adler cut in, “Herr B., fearing the loss of his manhood, has eschewed sexual experience altogether.”
“And,” said Stekel, raising his finger, “has subsequently become obsessed with Archduchess Marie-Valerie-with whom he can never form a relationship.”