Read Online City Of Fire Trilogy 1 - Dreamland by Kevin Baker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kevin Baker
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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imperturbably by. The man reached out blindly for his possessions—but they kept kicking them away from his grasp, knocking the skullcap off his head as he leaned over.
Freud started to step around the table—still with no good idea of what he would do but convinced that he had to do something —when the municipal police appeared. They shooed the youths away, took the young beggar into custody. It was safe for the Landtman’s patrons, Jew and gentile alike, to look up again. The strolling crowds quickly covered over the whole scene, like a corpse dropped into an ocean.
It was a strange scene, a disturbing augury on the eve of his great voyage, and Freud could not help mulling it over. Not that he believed in auguries, that was Jung’s department. He believed in science, even the science of the mind, and his trip would be an unprecedented opportunity to advance that Cause.
The invitation from America had been so deferential, even flattering: a generous stipend and an honorary degree from Clark University, in return for a chance to give five lectures before the greatest minds of science: Dewey, Wundt, Boas, Ebbinghaus, Metchnikoff—an incredible, waking daydream.
He had even managed to secure three lectures and another degree for Jung, his crown prince. They would travel over together, along with good old Ferenczi—his leading acolyte, aide, and errand boy of the moment. They would go through New York, take some time to tour the country—though he had joked to Ferenczi that all he really wanted was to see a porcupine.
To Jung, he had written:
“We are certainly getting ahead. If I am Moses, then you are Joshua and will take possession of the promised land of psychiatry, which I shall only be able to glimpse from afar.”
That evening, the Vienna Psycho-Analytical Society gave him a grand send-off in the Prater, the huge city park by the Danube. By day it was a crowded, roiling place, with a midway and a beer garden, but by night the park was transformed, its gracious trees wild and brooding as a Wagnerian forest.
The assembled psycho-analysts had tromped solemnly up a hill under boughs of jasmine and hyacinth, and glowing Chinese lanterns. At the top, a banquet table had been laid out, and there they sat, and feasted, and drank toast after toast of Gewürtztraminer to their master. They presented him with a carved African idol, some kind of gaping fertility god, and Freud held this totem solemnly beside him at the head of the table, accepting their toasts and tributes under the swaying lanterns with royal equanimity.
The previous spring he had descended on the first psychoanalytical congress like Moses indeed come down from the mountain, striding into their meeting unannounced and uninvited. He had got word that there was consternation in the ranks over Jung, the son, the heir.
“Most of you are Jews, and therefore you are incompetent to win friends for our new science,” he had told them. “Jews must be content with the modest role of preparing the ground. It is absolutely essential that I should form ties in the world of general science. I am getting old, and worn out with always being attacked.”
Dramatically, he had grabbed his own coat by its lapels, as if to rend it.
“Don’t you see? We are all in great danger. This cannot be known as the ‘Jewish science’—they won’t even leave me with a coat on my back. Jung and the other Swiss will save us—will save me, and all the rest of you!”
Overawed, they had done as he demanded. Jung had thanked him profusely for it and sworn again his fealty to the Cause, to the new science of psychology.
Yet almost as soon as he had anointed his crown prince, he had had . . . misgivings. Jung had come to visit, and talked all kinds of mystical foolishness about Nirdvanda, and the numinosum of sense and nonsense.
Freud had been stunned, telling himself this was simply Jung’s age, his restless, searching intellect. But then, when they were
Freud started to step around the table—still with no good idea of what he would do but convinced that he had to do something —when the municipal police appeared. They shooed the youths away, took the young beggar into custody. It was safe for the Landtman’s patrons, Jew and gentile alike, to look up again. The strolling crowds quickly covered over the whole scene, like a corpse dropped into an ocean.
It was a strange scene, a disturbing augury on the eve of his great voyage, and Freud could not help mulling it over. Not that he believed in auguries, that was Jung’s department. He believed in science, even the science of the mind, and his trip would be an unprecedented opportunity to advance that Cause.
The invitation from America had been so deferential, even flattering: a generous stipend and an honorary degree from Clark University, in return for a chance to give five lectures before the greatest minds of science: Dewey, Wundt, Boas, Ebbinghaus, Metchnikoff—an incredible, waking daydream.
He had even managed to secure three lectures and another degree for Jung, his crown prince. They would travel over together, along with good old Ferenczi—his leading acolyte, aide, and errand boy of the moment. They would go through New York, take some time to tour the country—though he had joked to Ferenczi that all he really wanted was to see a porcupine.
To Jung, he had written:
“We are certainly getting ahead. If I am Moses, then you are Joshua and will take possession of the promised land of psychiatry, which I shall only be able to glimpse from afar.”
That evening, the Vienna Psycho-Analytical Society gave him a grand send-off in the Prater, the huge city park by the Danube. By day it was a crowded, roiling place, with a midway and a beer garden, but by night the park was transformed, its gracious trees wild and brooding as a Wagnerian forest.
The assembled psycho-analysts had tromped solemnly up a hill under boughs of jasmine and hyacinth, and glowing Chinese lanterns. At the top, a banquet table had been laid out, and there they sat, and feasted, and drank toast after toast of Gewürtztraminer to their master. They presented him with a carved African idol, some kind of gaping fertility god, and Freud held this totem solemnly beside him at the head of the table, accepting their toasts and tributes under the swaying lanterns with royal equanimity.
The previous spring he had descended on the first psychoanalytical congress like Moses indeed come down from the mountain, striding into their meeting unannounced and uninvited. He had got word that there was consternation in the ranks over Jung, the son, the heir.
“Most of you are Jews, and therefore you are incompetent to win friends for our new science,” he had told them. “Jews must be content with the modest role of preparing the ground. It is absolutely essential that I should form ties in the world of general science. I am getting old, and worn out with always being attacked.”
Dramatically, he had grabbed his own coat by its lapels, as if to rend it.
“Don’t you see? We are all in great danger. This cannot be known as the ‘Jewish science’—they won’t even leave me with a coat on my back. Jung and the other Swiss will save us—will save me, and all the rest of you!”
Overawed, they had done as he demanded. Jung had thanked him profusely for it and sworn again his fealty to the Cause, to the new science of psychology.
Yet almost as soon as he had anointed his crown prince, he had had . . . misgivings. Jung had come to visit, and talked all kinds of mystical foolishness about Nirdvanda, and the numinosum of sense and nonsense.
Freud had been stunned, telling himself this was simply Jung’s age, his restless, searching intellect. But then, when they were
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