Where does this go, Papa? Papa? Mm. I thought it went next to Hermes, but
there doesn’t seem to be enough room. At least nothing got
broken on the journey. Everything is here. Only I am not here. Would you like to go out into the
garden, to join Mama and Aunt Minna? While we tidy up in here. Later. Let me know when Dr… Dr. Schur arrives. Oh! Am I late? Marthi. Minna. Forgive me. Dr. Breuer detained me. – Talked and talked.
– We’ve been enjoying the sunshine. Enjoying it? Look at poor Schoenberg. We were just about to leave. You look exhausted. Well, I ran all the way. First a patient refused
to eat the hospital food, and I had to
feed him with a spoon. – Excuses.
– Then I got waylaid by Breuer. More excuses. Schoenberg, come to my rescue. It’s hot. Let’s go inside. Oh, I want to hear the gossip first. What have I missed? What’s the news? I called Frau Bernays
a selfish old woman. To her face. Well done. – Sigmund.
– Well, Mother is selfish. And she won’t change her mind now. We’re leaving for Hamburg
in a week’s time. It’s only for a while. Mother said so. I tell you, it’s for good. A week’s time? I haven’t lost my temper. Cheer up, Schoenberg. We’ll kidnap them
and carry them off back to Vienna, and deliver them from
their Egyptian servitude. This is hardly the
promised land. The fact is, Mother doesn’t
want to live here. Vienna or Vladivostok,
it wouldn’t matter if we found two
rich old husbands. Sometimes I think
she doesn’t even want us to be happy. – How can you say such things?
– Oh, Marthi! Why pretend you don’t
know what she’s like? – Pretend?
– By the way you spring to her defense. As if you were the only one
who really cared about her. Well, we all know how
much you love Mama. Of course Minna loves her. That’s why
she doesn’t feel the need to spare her. I hope when I complain
of your behavior that you’ll regard that as
a token of my love. I shall. I do. Only most of the time, you’re much
too good-natured to complain. Rather like Schoenberg here. So when you tell the
truth, it’s usually with all the pent-up fury
of the well-behaved. – Whereas Minna and I…
– Are foul-tempered. Foul-tempered and frank. So we can save our compliments
for when we really mean them. We seem to have chosen
the wrong partners, in your opinion. On the contrary, the right partners. It only remains to convince your mama. Come, Ignaz. – Forgive me. It’s the heat.
– We’ll go indoors. He’s looking better, don’t you think? Better, yes. Perhaps he needs to lose his temper
a little more often? Ha! You’re very pale. I’m quite well, thank you. You can be thoroughly
unlovable sometimes. Marthi! Marthi? You do understand, if
you go back to Hamburg, I must know that I come
first in your life. That I count for more than anyone else. I shall work all the harder. I shall find the strength that I
know I have for your undivided love. And if I don’t, I must know now. Let us consult, What reinforcement we
may gain from hope, If not what resolution from despair. Paradise Lost. This morning, I thought I’d made
my fortune with a new brain dye. I hit on the idea of using bichromate
of potash, copper and water to make the cell structures stand out
more clearly under the microscope. The wretched specimen were so slippery,
like a little piece of sausage. I don’t want to hear, especially
if it isn’t going to make your fortune. But I think… if you could have heard
how Breuer spoke to me today, spoke of his hopes for me… There’s a post coming free at the
hospital in the neurology department, at twice my present salary. I should apply, he says,
with his support. And he has influence? Certainly. The man’s a respected scientist. And most important, he believes in me,
as you should, without reservation. Well, then. If he can help… I do believe in you. You know that. Only be patient. Mama feels her own poverty so keenly. Do you wonder she wants the best
for Minna and myself? Marthi, your mother
is the enemy of our love, and if you go on
listening to her… – I will not choose between you.
– My God, you’re obstinate! Marthi. Marthi! Marthi, my dearest one, my love. Please forgive me. Don’t. Don’t, someone will see. Marthi! “There is a post free
in neuropathology. “Perhaps, dear colleague,
you will put in a word for Freud in the
appropriate ear?” “My dear Breuer, ” he
said, “we have enough of these Jew-boys up
from the country.” You know how Billroth is.
He says it to my face. “Look at what happened to young Weiss
working his brain to shreds. “Too much ambition, too much haste.
Festina lente. “What your Dr. Freud needs is patience
and some more published articles.” Now that I look at you more closely,
I think he’s wrong. What you need is a bath. Another day, Josef, thank you.
I was walking, that’s all. – Then take off your coat at least.
– Oh. Walking in this weather! Come, shirt sleeves are allowed. Mathilde’s out shopping
with the children. You shouldn’t walk. Here. At least take a fiacre
from time to time. Of course, you could afford to
if it wasn’t for such a cigar. – It’s your cigar, Josef.
– Oh. Anyway, I wanted to walk. More published articles! Did you tell Billroth
it was on your advice that I gave up my research post
to train for general practice? Now a job comes free,
and my way forward is blocked because I haven’t
published anything. What do they expect? We’re lucky
to find time to eat, let alone study! Internal medicine, surgery,
dermatology, opthalmology. Do you realize I’ve spent three months
in the psychiatric wards? I can just tell the difference between
manic depression and senile dementia. And I’m off to nervous diseases
in a matter of weeks! And everyone knows when you do set up
in practice, you won’t attract patients unless you’ve found your field
and established a reputation in it. How? I’m not like Weiss.
I don’t pretend to be a genius. He, poor man, knew where he was going.
He thought he did. After three months under
Meynert, struggling with dements, alcoholics,
syphilitics, I know one thing, I’m not a doctor. And I’m clumsy. I’m clumsy with patients,
I’m clumsy with everyone, the wards
fill me with dread. And sometimes I think
I’m going mad myself. For God’s sake, Josef, what am I to do? Hurry! Hurry! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! She’s going to jump!
She’s going to jump! She’s going to jump, jump, jump! Some rigidity. The devil. The devil. The devil.
There’s my spit. – Oculogyric problems. Downward gaze.
– Oh! Look! Look, look, look! He’s licking my spit. – Carry on with the hydrotherapy.
– It’s burning, it’s burning. He gave me the disease.
I’m bleeding, I’m bleeding. Hurry! – Admission report.
– Yes. Confusion. – Tics. Recurrent shivers.
– Blood! – Motorestlessness. Akathisia.
– Get it out! Get it out! Intermittent torticollis. Some improvement after electro-massage. Cure improbable. Father syphilitic. – Observe. The greater the madness…
– My baby’s sick. ..the more mechanical the human being
becomes in its tics and tremors. Tick, tick! Tick, tick!
Tick, tick, tick. – Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick! – A gear has jammed,
a connection failed. Somewhere in the elusive
chemistry of the brain. – But where?
– Come, come! Come quick! If we could see better under the
microscope, this ward would be empty. Come quick! Come, come! Come, come! Tick, tick, tick! Who admitted this one?
Shouldn’t be here. I did. I admitted her. This one belongs with Schultz.
Department Four. You’ll see after the autopsy. Brain tumor as big as your fist. – Ah! Ah! Ah!
– You’ll soon learn the science. Now, then. Good morning. – I preferred you with a mustache.
– Case history? My parents warned me about him.
He’s a ruffian. Emile! That isn’t even his name. Well, what is it?
Aren’t I worth it to you? – You don’t deserve to be loved!
– Let her be. – Let her be. – Letter B, letter B,
letter B, letter B. It won’t last. She will quieten down. Letter B, letter B, letter B. – Echolalia. Delusional insanity.
– God have mercy, Mary have mercy. – Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiae…
– Conclusion. You mustn’t think you have to choose
between medicine and science, Sigmund. I know the laboratory
must seem pure and philosophical beside
the rough and tumble, quackery even, of general practice. What daunts every young doctor is… ..is authority over that everyday thing,
the body. You in particular, I
think, seem to draw back from that seemingly
godlike responsibility. Why do you shrink from it? Do I? Once, years ago, I went back home
to Freiberg for a holiday and I witnessed a consultation
by a country doctor. And what he said was very simple
and the same in every case. “You’re bewitched, my good fellow.” He said the same thing
to each patient in turn, no matter what
their symptoms were, “Bewitched.” What impressed me the most was
they all went away completely satisfied. So, at that moment, doctoring
seemed a fatuous profession. Diagnosis is a form of mutual
reassurance for patient and doctor. Witchcraft, if you like. But you could spend your life
bent over a microscope searching for some elusive chemical. Healing will always
require more than drugs. The body is as malleable as a dream. And those that have the
courage to explore that mystery will one day
be called scientists. In time. If they’re not afraid
to be called quacks. Until quite recently, I
ran that risk myself. I’ve been treating a young girl,
barely 20 when we began, for two years now, week in, week out. Daily sometimes. I tell you this in the
strictest confidence. As it happened, I knew the family well. The father Pappenheim wasn’t himself,
and the girl nursed him like an angel, putting her own health at risk. going without sleep, without food,
until she was too weak to move. Her sight and speech were failing. She began to suffer from hallucinations,
dreadful ones. Intermittent paralyses, contractions
of the limbs, severe headaches. It was worsening day by day, as though
in sympathy with the dying father. The hallucinations…
Oh! Were appalling. Death’s-heads. Skeletons in her room. The ribbons in her hair
turning into snakes. If you could have only seen her
before the illness set in, she had a purity about her, a tenderness, chaste and kind. It was heartbreaking to watch her
turn into a madwoman. Other doctors were called to no effect. Sometimes she wouldn’t even
acknowledge their presence. For her the room was empty
except for the two of us. And I had completely lost my touch. I could not penetrate that nightmare. Till the father died. Berthe began to live
again, miraculously, made herself live again
as though by…by some autohypnosis. Though her mind came and went now. The physical symptoms dragged on. And then I realized. If she could hypnotize herself, why couldn’t I? Every evening
I would attempt to induce a trance. She was a willing subject. And little by little, telling her she was well, her arms and legs no
longer cramped in pain, we freed the symptoms one by one. Until there was no need for the trance. We only had to talk. Chimney-sweeping, she called it. I didn’t know you practiced
the black arts, Josef. Is there some freemasonry? Ernst von Fleischl claims
to be a hypnotist. Fleischl uses it as a party trick. This was a patient in a state of living
death, insensible to every therapy. But hypnosis worked. If you cry witchcraft, let me remind you
it’s a name we give to a lost art or one yet to be acknowledged. Yes, I hypnotized my parrot once. – Successfully?
– Mm. Just don’t mention the subject when
Meynert’s around. It’s his bete noir. He thinks hypnosis is a kind of pseudo-science with
immoral side effects. Erotic mumbo-jumbo. – And is it?
– Erotic? Not in my experience. I can’t speak
for the parrot, or indeed for Meynert. I think he gets his pleasure from
dissection, wielding the scalpel. Oh. What we have here is a faulty machine. The question is, can
the diligent brain anatomist find a cure
for a short circuit. – Ernst?
– Mm? Will you take a look at this? Mm-hm. – What is it?
– Medulla oblongata. Ah. And what’s it soaked in? Mm? Well, this is a vast
improvement on your previous attempt. The colors. This is quite remarkable. What is remarkable, Herr von Fleischl? Er…Professor Breueke. This is Dr Freud’s work here, Professor.
He’s found, er…some new tincture. May I look? I have some news for you all. I think my search for a brain dye
has finally borne fruit. Oh, wonderful. For generations, physiologists
have tried to find a staining solution which would make the
tissue in the central nervous system stand
out under examination. But it seems that gold dipped
in chloride may be the answer. Sigi, that’s wonderful. Had no one thought of gold?
That’s always the solution. No, a man named Flechsig thought of it.
I’m the first to test it, that’s all. Is your hospital so rich, then, in gold? Does it matter?
The discovery belongs to him. I too have good news. From the first of next month,
my salary is being raised to six gulden. Herr Munst is taking me on permanently
at the travel agency. Good, good. – Congratulations, Alexander.
– Rosa. – Pass Sigmund his soup.
– Yes, Mama. How is Martha? Have you heard from her? Not for a day or two. She’s very busy at the moment. You know, this gold chloride business
may be the turning point for me. Breueke came into the
laboratory and took a look at my first slides.
You know what he said? “I see your methods
will make you famous yet.” My friend von Fleischl says he’s never
seen so well into the nerve fibers. He hopes it will transform the study of
all diseases originating in the brain. I understand the great von Fleischl
has a few diseased fibers himself. An infected thumb from
working on a corpse. One of the hazards of my profession,
Alexander. – And that he’s now a morphine addict.
– Oh, how dreadful! Also one of the hazards. With what is Martha busy? Is Hamburg so interesting? – Sigi?
– Let the boy eat. Can’t I ask him how his
fiancee’s keeping? He doesn’t want to talk about it. If he was happy, he would talk about it. Who needs a brain dye,
when a mother can see everything? To tell the truth,
I haven’t been well since Martha left. Oh. Symptoms? Fatigues. Migraines. – Depressions.
– An ordinary Viennese in love. The nights are the worst. I can’t sleep for dreams.
Violent dreams. Then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. Sometimes I think this separation
will cost me my sanity. I’m serious. You mean the frustration. There’s
a simple remedy for lustful dreams. Girls aplenty in the Leopoldstadt. You’re speaking from experience. – You’ve never been?
– I swear on the Madonna. Go on fearing for your sanity, then. This driveling love is
like a great natural that runs lolling up and down
to hide his bauble in a hole. Have you ever noticed how madness
and frustration go hand in hand? Now, if there were a
little chemical solution, Sigmund, a convenient
antidote to lust, hm? – Pour me a glass, would you?
– Yes, when I’ve finished. Now. For the time being, take my tip. Alser Strasse 19. Get thee behind me, Satan. – I preferred you as Mercutio.
– You prefer me dead, then. And you could have
stayed on at the Institute and become
Breueke’s assistant. Don’t say that. Sigmund. Do you ever wonder whether we have
the power to kill by wishing it? What makes you say that?
Do you have somebody in mind? I killed my younger brother. At least I was convinced I did. For years. You told me Alexander
was alive and earning. Julius. He was born a year after me,
and I hated him with all my heart. He died at nine months. And you can remember all this
aged less than two? I can remember everything
about those years. Don’t you? And there are still people
you want to kill, including me? Of course not. There. Ah. – Prost.
– Prost. To the new conquistador. May he be forgiven his
sins in the name of science, or at least
forget about them. Mm. Ah, it’s… it’s… Oh! – Ernst?
– Wait. I need… In the desk, in the drawer.
In the desk, in the left… Quickly! Come on! Oh, God. Oh! Ohh! I’ve been without it for two days.
I’ve been without anything. I spent them mostly in the bath. Can’t Billroth bring the operation… Waste of time. – Death is already inside the walls.
– In God’s name! You’re not dying. An embossed carbuncle,
in my corrupted blood. Laurie! Oh, for God’s sake, shut her up! Mm! Oh, God. I’ve got… The only
Sanskrit-speaking parrot in Vienna. We’ve been learning together. – You’re learning Sanskrit?
– Mm. Does a dying man set himself such tasks? Why not? It’s a dead language. And there’s not much else to do
in the bath for days on end. Now, what about your novel?
I bet you never finished that. I burnt it months ago. Ah. – Do you want to lie down?
– No, I’m better now, thank you. You ought to rest. What a lot of Don Quixotes we are,
eh, Sigi? Will any of us see 40,
do you suppose? Hm? Come, sit down. Talk to me. How is your Esmeralda? Surrounded by suitors.
So she hints. Writers, sculptors. But she is chaste? As snow. A chaste Madonna. Did I tell you I was
thinking of emigrating? No. – Where to?
– England. Hm. – Why not America?
– All right, America. Sleep. It’ll do you good. You will be here when
I wake up, won’t you? Of course. Don’t worry. Gold.
That’s always the solution. – Admission report?
– Father syphilitic. You can publish at once. Papa? Dr. Shaw is here to see you. Where’s Martha? She went out shopping
when the rain stopped. – I’ll give you something right away.
– Papa. Aspirin. Just as it was, Professor. More flowers! – But no patients today?
– Ah. My mind wanders when they talk. And then they expect
me to say something, and it’s difficult
with all this machinery in my jaw. So they see a withered old owl
sitting there with not much to say. My dear Schur. You remember we had a little talk
once when we first met, you remember? Death was already inside the walls, and we a-agreed, when the time came, I should not be
forced to suffer more than is necessary. I remember. Your predecessor, Doc… ..tor Deustch, I trusted him. But he hid the truth from me for months. Everyone else knew it was cancer. My cancer. But I wasn’t to be told. Now I must trust you. After 16 years, it’s enough. You understand. Ah. My aspirin. My best friend. Hm. Unless you can find a
better way for me to suffer this infernal piece
of metal in my jaw, and still think… clearly. – It’s time to adjust it again.
– Oh. If you’ll let me
administer some Evipan we could remove the
prosthesis painlessly. – This afternoon, perhaps.
– Enough drugs. You know what Evipan is derived from. Don’t you? – How much is in here?
– One twentieth of a gram. Oh. It’s no improvement on champagne.
It tastes foul. Have you tried it? – Ernst, trust me.
It’s a remarkable substance. – Huh. It seems the Incas worshiped it
for its medicinal and other properties. Other properties? This morning at the library I came
across a picture of an Inca goddess presenting coca leaves to the
conquistadors as a gift from the gods, to satisfy the hungry,
fortify the weary and make the unfortunate
forget their sorrows. So the legend ran. But it’s true. There’s a man called Aschenbrandt,
a regimental doctor. He’s been giving cocaine to soldiers on
maneuvers. He says it makes them hardy. Do you have enough to take some with me? You know Rosannes at the hospital
with his perpetual stomach cramps. Well, I gave him a few drops
without letting him know what it was. And the pain vanished. I even took some home and gave it to
Mama to ease her lung constriction. And offered some to Alexander, telling
him that it sharpened the intelligence. Well, it does.
It does more than sharpen it. It brings a kind of
unassailable euphoria with no loss of acuteness,
no sense of being drugged. You feel perfectly normal. Certainly not overstimulated. And above all, without any cravings
once the exhilaration passes. Imagine if cocaine could
wean people off the worst addictions without
pain, without nausea. It also prevents motion sickness. I’ve tested it in the
Prata on the big wheel. Ha. And how on earth have you found time
for all this experimenting, hm? You sure you haven’t forgotten
your hospital duties? There’s ample time, I work at night. – And the Seven Years’ War?
– Oh! Gold chloride already forgotten. What an absurd impulsive man you are. Ernst, with this, I can
transform the living brain and through
it the living body. Do you realize this is the panacea
that the ancients knew? This is the elixir old Pence de Leon
spent his life searching for. Meynert’s right. Our salvation is real.
It’s chemical. It’s not metaphysical. And it’s right here in this precious
powder, health and happiness. Do you know, I’m beginning to feel
quite transported already. Be warned. Cocaine is also a most
powerful aphrodisiac. Huh. So you no doubt intend
to slip some into Martha’s tea? We shall both partake. – In the name of the gods.
– Mm. – Please let me have a look at it!
– No, no, you had your chance. You can expect
a certain numbness on the lips. So I’ve noticed. In an aphrodisiac it’s hardly
speed of reflex that you want. It’s the sustained… thrust! Leopold, I’m serious. While I’m away,
you must try some on your patients. I’m an eye specialist, Sigmund. My patients aren’t suffering
from general debilitation. Well, to alleviate the
pain of iritis, say. Look, I’ll give you my
druggist’s address. I’ve arranged
some cut-price advertising for him so he lets me have cocaine
at a reduced rate. Connor. Come and try the dynamometer. Come on, then. – The record stands at 7.5 now.
– With or without cocaine? – With cocaine. Have you taken some?
– Yes, I have. For the first time in my life,
people come to me. Editors asking for articles,
colleagues seeking advice. And drugs. Even my professors
deign to recognize me in the street. “There’s Freud, the
father of cocaine.” – Don’t you believe me?
– Of course I believe you. I’ll put in for a
lectureship next spring, resign from the hospital
and go to Paris. Then back to Vienna. Wait, wait! Why to Paris? To study under Charcot. Breuer says he has the best collection
of pickled brains in Europe. And he’s promised me an introduction. Then back in triumph to Vienna,
a fully fledged neurologist. A lecturer in neuropathology. Ready to set up in practice. You’re not listening. I am. It’s the cocaine making me laugh. Would you like… to spend your honeymoon in Lubeck
when I return from Paris? Perhaps while I’m there
I shall try my hand at hypnotism. It’s Charcot’s specialty. Who knows? The power of suggestion. Sigmund! I’ve already heard. You said a couple of weeks.
You’ve been away a month. A month? Is that too long for a man like Koller
to restrain his own ambitions? Too long to respect a friend’s priority? Do you dash in as soon as a colleague
goes on holiday? Steal his discovery… – Sigmund.
– ..and proclaim it before the world? – You’ve already published.
– An essay! An introduction! I gather Koller’s
already done operations using cocaine as an anesthetic! There’s been a paper for
the Medical Society giving detailed accounts
of Koller’s triumph! – How could you let this happen?
– Sigmund. It’s not my job to
protect your interests. Your job! If only you’d done as I asked! And offered cocaine as an analgesic? Koller’s using it as
an anesthetic, Sigi. There’s a world of difference. Not just palliative treatment. But to deaden the eye
for operative purposes. You and I, we were concentrating more
on the internal uses of the drug, hm? So far, Koller’s only
tried it out on animals. He’s due to read a paper to the faculty
on the 17th. You could give one too. It’s been done before. But to be the first, Leopold. The first. You know what it means. If I could see the Herr Professor
on a most important personal matter. If it’s brief, Dr. Freud. I approve. – You approve?
– The beard. Much better. Oh, yes. Herr Hofrat… For some months now, I’ve thought
of forwarding a formal application for a lectureship in neuropathology. And I should like to
ask whether or not, on the strength of my
existing publications, I stand any chance of being elected or
whether I should wait until I have more. What are your papers on, Doctor? Ah, yes. Coca, I know. You seem to have eight or nine here. Yes, by all means, send
in your application. When I think of some of the people
elevated to the rank of lecturer, well, I don’t think
there’ll be any objection. I have several more
things to be published, two of them in the
immediate future. – You won’t need them. – But there isn’t much
about neuropathology. Who knows anything about
neuropathology until they’ve studied anatomy
and physiology? You seem to doubt your own credentials. Everyone says you’re an
excellent anatomist. Just what we need. Well, then… may I take it you’ll
support my candidature? I believe Professor Breueke will. Well, in that case,
there shouldn’t be any opposition. And if objections are
raised by the faculty, well, surely, he and I
are men enough to push it through. Is that all? Thank you. Thank you so much. Dr. Freud. Thank you once more. Herr Doctor? Some of my colleagues are
disturbed by reports that this coca taken internally
may have degenerative effects. Perhaps you’ve come across
some evidence of this yourself. Yet I understand you
still champion its use in the treatment of gastric disorders
and the like. Is that correct? By no means. That is, I no longer advocate it
with my first unconsidered fervor. I think that with the proper supervision and once the substance
has been adequately tested… It’s true. I don’t believe we know
enough about cocaine. Sigmund! Sigmund! Sigmund. Where’s Ernst? Is he all right? I can’t stay long.
I have a consultation at nine. Why did you lock the door? I didn’t. Ernst did, to keep out the snakes. – To do what?
– I thought you’d better see him. He’s been sleeping for the last hour
with the help of drugs. Morphine? Thank God.
I came as soon as I could. Forgive me. I’ve refused him morphine for three days
and this morning… I felt I couldn’t hold out any longer. You’ve been here for three days
alone with him? For God’s sake, it’s crushing me!
I can’t… Quickly! I can’t move my legs! Get it off me!
Please get it off me! I can’t… The great gray worm… – What are you giving him?
– What do you think? Cocaine? By subcutaneous injection?
Are you mad? – It works faster. Help me!
– I’ll get it. Let me get it! Oh, my God! How could… Get him away. Get him away.
The dripping of him. Get him away from me!
The crawling of him. I can’t stand it. Don’t… It’s all right.
We can leave him for a moment, please. No. Oh, God. Oh. Hm. Cocaine at least subdues him. I daren’t give morphine. Don’t you understand yet? – He’s a double addict.
– Josef. Has this been going
on all summer? How long have you been giving
him cocaine like this? I’m trying to keep him alive! Stay with him.
I’ll be back after surgery. Could you ask Hartmann
to bring up some more hot water? Sigmund. – Are you in pain?
– No. Still drowsy. Otherwise… remarkably good. What were you reading? Dante. It’s not a bad translation
by a certain von Fleischl. Oh. – Is there anything you need?
– No. How strange. My brain is racing again. No wonder the ancient philosophers
did all of their thinking in the bath. Ah, did I… did I, er… did I hallucinate or was I dreaming? Oh. Breuer like a great mangy crow.
I remember him. Do you remember in the Purgatorio the
man who reaches out for Virgil’s hand? Mm. Such is my love that I, poor ghost, forget
and treat as flesh the stuff of shadows. In the Detroit Gazette, Bentley recommends a
decoction of coca leaves as a specific against
opium addiction. – Against opium, yes.
– Morphine is a derivative. – It’s purified opium.
– Just as cocaine is a purer form. Fight fire with fire, Josef.
I tell you it was working. Working? The man craves morphine. But that’s not my doing. When Billroth operated
on him, he had to give him morphine, knowing
Ernst was an addict. The man was in such agony! We had to start all over again
with the cocaine treatment. You talk about having the courage to
explore the lost arts and new sciences. Not to unleash a fresh scourge,
replacing one addiction with another. If people believed your
claims for cocaine, we’d have a whole city
full of degenerates. Believe me, I hope you win
that traveling grant. The sooner you
leave, the better. Madness, madness! I recommended you as a sober-minded
scientist. Canvased for your promotion. And this is how you reward me. Is that what you’re so concerned about?
Your reputation? Well, I can set your
mind at ease on that. I’ve been assessed on my own merit.
Ask Breueke. Ask Nothnagel. Oh, yes, no doubt you told them
what they wanted to hear. That everything the
human soul requires will one day be sold
in a chemist’s shop. If the faculty knew
what you had done here to Fleischl, they’d have dismissed you as a…
a reckless fool. And you’d rather let him die? Is that it? Let your emotions get control, Sigmund, and you are no longer a doctor. Herr Dr. Freud. Ernst. Yes. I’ve, er…decided to rejoin the living. I was beginning to feel
like Marat in that bath, waiting for
Mademoiselle Corday. Is this better? Mm. – You’ve got the grant.
– Yes. And I’ve resigned my
position at the hospital, for everything’s in
the balance now. Ah. Congratulations. I need you more than ever. When I return from
Paris, I shall be at your mercy as a novice
in general practice. Without your guidance… I understand Charcot models himself on
Napoleon, one hand in his jacket, huh? – It’d be a magnificent
opportunity for you. – The finest pickled
brains in Europe. Oh, never mind the pickled brains,
think of the Louvre, Notre Dame and the Comedie-Francaise
and Sarah Bernhardt. They say Charcot’s demonstrations rival
anything to be seen in the theater. All the best people attend.
Le tout Paris. Writers and savants
from all over the world come to watch him
mesmerize his patients. More long-lost magic, Sigi,
at least as ancient as our Inca potion. Charcot’s a modern
witch doctor, you see. That’s what offends the
die-hards in Vienna. But the gods are on
his side, I tell you. What’s the matter, huh? Don’t you want to learn
to hypnotize your victims? What is it? In return for Charcot’s secrets,
you can open his eyes to cocaine. I shall waste my visit
if I neglect laboratory work. Ernst, I’m going there
to study neurology, not to announce a
cure all of my own. We’ve made great strides with the drug. – You’ve shown what can be achieved.
– This is Breuer speaking. But you know I must guard against
my propensity to dream of magic potions, magic spells which might
prove to be scourges in disguise. Listen! This is my scourge, a
blood disease contracted from a corpse, not
morphine, not cocaine. I don’t regret the risks you’ve taken.
I thank God for your drugs. The devil always has the best tunes. And beware of the Breuers of this world. They don’t mind taking risks
when it suits them and then justifying it
with high-minded, puritanical cant. What risks has Breuer taken?
You don’t mean dabbling in hypnosis? He’s fished in deeper waters. Alas for a certain young lady,
one Fraulein Pappenheim. – I’m acquainted with the case.
– Poor ghost. In the same boat as I am now, wrestling
with the dark angel of morphine, or didn’t he tell you that? He’s a hypocrite rebuking you.
Haven’t you guessed his secret? That he fell in love with her?
Of course. And why not? With a beautiful innocent
young girl. It’s of no consequence. It’s of no consequence.
Listen to the man. Shall I tell you how innocent she is? Hm? Breuer was called out
to her bedside late one night to find
the girl in labor, screaming with the pain
of the contractions, screaming, “Dr.
Breuer’s baby’s coming!” – That’s not true.
– Ask him whether it’s true or not. – His child?
– Not in fact. In fantasy. There was no baby, as
Breuer soon discovered, He rushed Matilda off to Venice
on a second honeymoon and left Fraulein Pappenheim to drugs
and not-so-innocent dreams. To despair. And you find that of no consequence, hm? You see, Breuer’s the innocent.
That’s what I find inexcusable. Moral virginity, self-righteousness
and you suffer from it too. So, go on, go to Paris. Go and learn
the black arts on the boulevards. Isn’t that why you became a doctor? Learn to handle women. That makes sure the doctor
knows one little place to cure. A bedside manner sets the heart at ease,
and then they’re yours. The treatment as you please. Mm. Oh. No good. No… – I shan’t be here when you return.
– In God’s name… You know it as well as I do. There have been days
when I hoped you would understand and not force me
to suffer longer than was necessary. I would have taken steps
long ago, had it not been for my parents
with their high hopes. Perhaps, um… ..as well today as any other day. No. No argument. – A farewell gift.
– Ernst, I can’t. In the name of the gods. Don’t fail me.