GENERISIS
presents THE GOLDEN DAWN
Episode
18 - THE DREAM DOCTOR!
So
with Liebenfels' perplexing riddle and a winsome glance from Frau Wittek I was
dismissed... Anna's smile would reappear in my dreams but, after, would follow
images which caused me to start from that soft Viennese bed with my heart risen
somewhere up in the vicinity of my tonsils. It was Friday... and I was at
liberty without a single Sprengel lead save that of the German Templars and no
other intent but to walk the streets of Vienna, marvelling at the tongue-twisting
Bohemian names of the merchants and soldiers in candylandish uniforms, numerous
as black cats in London. By and by I reached that place called Bergstrasse, a
depressing block of junkshops closed early for Sabbat crowding up to the
formidable Suhnhaus from which, abruptly, a figure stormed out... wrathful as
one of those shades of the incinerated theatre patrons; a formidable woman,
tossing off incomprehensible, gravelly curses at the pale, bearded face
watching from a window above. Trusting the inner promptings of my vagabond
spirit guides, I called upwards...
"Herr
Freud?"
"Abriesen!"
the bearded man shouted back. "In funfzig Jahren ist alles vorbei!"
I
did not know whether the dream doctor had extended an invitation... or
dismissal... being young and of then-optimistic character, I chose to presume
the former. The harridan had left the door to the Suhnhaus quite open and so,
having estimated the location of Freud's office I mounted the steps and soon
presented myself at the threshold of the controversial Doctor.
"My
name is Cameron," I introduced myself, "Arthur Cameron... spreichen
Angeles?"
Freud
shrank from my extended hand as though it belonged to one of that small
fraternity of court officials employed to serve legal papers upon unfortunates.
"Bitte, bitte... some... are you a bill collector?"
"No,"
I hastened to assure him, "only a man who suffers from disturbing
dreams..."
Sigmund
Freud's eyes focused, his chin and teeth twitching in a nervous manner and he
raised a pipe to his lips, which I deduced to be the mannerism by which he
concealed his interest.
"Are
you a pauper?"
By
way of response I handed Freud my wallet, which he opened as I took the
opportunity to appraise the psychologist's suite. A great assemblage of
artifacts, many very old and perhaps valuable, had been collected but
haphazardly arranged... chintz furniture from Versailles, ancient Greek, Roman
and oriental knick knacks randomly facing each other upon tables and shelves.
Thin cardboard covered a broken window and Freud sniffled constantly as he
returned my billfold with a shrug.
"Dr.
Hartmann suggested I meet with you," I declared.
"He
is a vandal... but that woman you undoubtedly saw depart was my patient from
Warsaw, a former patient now..." Freud admitted ruefully, "and I have
no other appointment until four. I take dollars American or English pounds...
do you think you will require extended treatment? Most do... I arrange lodgings
for my foreign patients in a Pension on Maximilian Square or the Kreuzlingen
Sanatorium if..."
"I
do not desire to be hospitalized..." I protested, "only to stop this
damnable dreaming."
"That
would be unfortunate... in dreams begin responsibility and too many in this
Empire lack any sense of that." Something near that turned up in one of
Willie's poems, as did a dream doctor in a number of stories by that young
marine journalist Sarsfield-Ward; I must have told the both of them my story
but, at what instance, I cannot, for the life of me, bring back. "But sit,
sit..." Freud invited, "now... what is the dream that so troubles
you."
The
infamous Freudian couch, quite obscure at this time, was so smothered in
pillows and dusty Turkish rugs that, as I was wearing a fawn colored suit, I'm
afraid I made an overacted show of brushing Freud's couch to determine the
extent and nature of its dust. Today, of course, it is given that a psychotherapeutic
patient will recline at his or her full length but that couch was so crowded
with clutter I could scarcely sit with comfort, moving my limbs constantly in a
way that must have been distracting to the dream doctor.
"There
have been too many lately," I admitted. "Once, however, what may have
been a bird... seemed to dive into the pillow as I slept..."
"Passed
right through your head, did it?"
"Why...
I suppose that it did!"
Freud,
evidently delighted, removed his pipe and, after placing it upon a table,
rubbed his hands as if contemplating a plump goose laid out upon his table.
"I once dreamt that my mother had been carried off by men with heads of
falcons," he confided, "which were, of course, Egyptian funerary
gods... symbols of copulation for the word "vegeln" is near
"vogel", for bird. Have you ever desired sex with your mother?"
So
absurd and offensive was this suggestion that I rose, with some difficulty from
the notorious couch. "What? Now see... first, I do not even know German
very well, and then..."
Who
knows what I may have done, perhaps even some infamous act of violence upon the
person of Freud had we not been interrupted by a pounding on the door and
screams. Freud threw his hands up, waved me off, and admitted a hysterical
young man into whose outstretched arms he thrust a pile of dirty looking
papers... they exchanged a few choice German oaths before Freud slammed the
door against the fellow's curses."
"Weininger!
Such a pretty boy, quite favored by some morbid Scandinavians, but a plagiarist
of Fleiss and also Dr. Mobius... another of those tiresome self-hating
Jews." And Freud coughed again, glancing wistfully at his pipe.
"Perhaps
if I came at another time..." was my suggestion.
"Why?"
was the doctor's defensive retort. "Is it that you are cold... that is the
work of our Noble Window Breakers," he informed me with a gesture.
"Young Christians of wealth and privilege with no better objective in life
than to torment an old, shabby Israelite!"
"What
do I owe you," I announced, certain of the magnitude of my error and
anxious to be off, "...how about five dollars?"
The
sight of money revived the self-pitying dream doctor... he reached perhaps a
little hastily, then slapped his forehead and turns to a pile of book filled
boxes.
"Ah...
what I do," Freud sighed, "I was not born a cheat you know... but
look at these! Franz Hartmann sells more of his nonsense," he sniped,
having noted the still-unread romance among my parcels, "than I ever shall
of my Interpretation of Dreams. Please take a copy for your trouble," said
the Doctor, then pressed his hand to his brow. "My head!"
"Do
you wish me to call a doctor?" and Sigmund Freud rewarded me with a glare
of the sort I do recall having seen, once... upon the face of a circus bear
whose chain had just been pulled, too suddenly, too painfully.
"I
am a doctor," he rallied his dignity. "No, you may not... it's only
migraine. It is all the fault of women, just as Sacher-Masoch and Kraft-Ebbing
declare. They abscond with our souls, young man... perhaps young Weininger is
not so disturbed as he appears," Freud added with a melancholy shrug.
"I
know the way downstairs," I declared and, carrying off another unpopular
Viennese book, I let myself out as a gust of November wind punched the
cardboard in; snowflakes whirling in the parlor of the failing dream doctor. So
it was that I collected no useful information regarding either Fraulein
Sprengel nor my dreams, only another curiosity for my library. Had I taken
somewhat more initiative, I might even have obtained a copy of the young
Weininger's opus... when published two years later it became one of those brief
sensations for the reason that the author devised an intriguing manner of
publicizing his work... suicide... renting for that grisly purpose the very
room in which Beethoven spent the last year of his life.
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