"I'd love to tell you, but I don't think I should."

[somethingunforgivable]

[ There was some dread associated with waking up this morning. He could put on a face, agree to disagree, but the previous night's discussion had left him angry. Sigmund Freud had refused to share a simple dream, simply because he didn't think he should. Had he feared being analyzed by Carl? He had to wonder if he was seen as just another patient, or if he was a friend. Sure, their friendship was strained, but that was no reason to be disrepectful. He wondered, perhaps, if he should just avoid breakfast and have food delivered to his room.

Then it would look like he was running away. Instead, he got dressed. He made sure there were no wrinkles in his material before he headed to breakfast. He was early, not too early to seem eager or nervous. But he would likely beat the other guests. ]

Comments

[inestimablevalue]

[ Freud had not slept well that night. He had been sitting up in his cramped cabin, reminiscing of an old student.

(Otto- bright, brilliant Otto. He had once grinned, perching himself on Freud's desk, and asked him in a faux-French accent, boyish mischief shaped into adult mockery:

Professeur, how can any human doctor try to diagnose anyone else? It's arrogance, we are all so fucking arrogant. See, professeur, what we know is entirely limited to our six holes in the face - eyes, nose, ears. Sometimes we get lucky, and we learn things through the cock too- but ah, professeur, I should not ask you cruel things like that. You would not know. It has been far too long, hasn't it, professeur?

Otto had left, laughing delightedly afterwards.)

He has left too much of himself open. In his analysis of Jung's dream he reveals not Jung, but Freud himself; blown himself open until all of his vulnerabilities are shown. Why should he tell Jung his own dream, when he is already laid out on the examination table, a hysteric with his fingers clenching and unclenching, mouth open and gasping wordless shrieks? Why should he put himself on further display for Jung to analyse and peer at?

Transference and projection. How is he any capable as a doctor, when he's trapped behind his own eyes and limitations? His own needs and politics?

He remembers the line of Jung's back as he turns, the stark black of his pressed silk slacks against the whitewashed walls of the ship. The first class cabin; Jung's casual, oblivious smile. The cost of Freud's ticket had taken two months to save. A first class would have cost three months of food for his entire family- if not more.

(I don't see what difference that makes.)

He is on his second cigar of the day (he counts days by dawns; it is an exquisitely Jewish habit) when he sees Jung's figure darkening the door of the deck. Freud turns around, and he removes the cigar from his lips. There is a long moment in which he only watches Jung before he speaks. ]

I did not expect you so early today. [ A beat, two. Freud reveals more of himself in a single moment than he ever will in twenty pages of discourse. In text, he is controlled. ]

My friend.

[somethingunforgivable]

[ He hesitates when he says those words. He feels like he should omit the fact that sleeping had been difficult, almost as difficult as approaching Freud that morning. He had to push that hesitation back. If he wanted to continue learning from Freud. He was ...insulted and a bit hurt by the fact that someone he had so admired would not share anything.

He had thought on Freud's interpretation of his own dream so many times. He disagreed, too. He did not believe it necessarily to be Freud, but perhaps - his own subconscious desired it to be. Desired to remove Freud from his life. He had to hold his tongue.

Now was a time to be nice. See how much longer a facade could continue. ]

There's something here that made it early to rise. [ All he knew of Freud's sleeping habits was learned from the time they had spent together (not much). It was amazing how little he learned about the man himself from a thirteen hour conversation. ]

I could say the same, my friend.

oh my gosh, ten days late. I'm so sorry!

[inestimablevalue]

[ It does not take a psychoanalyst to be able to tell that it is far easier to share ideas rather than personal details. Freud has told Jung far too many of his dreams already, digging out bits and pieces of himself and laying them on his student's feet much like shiny pieces of stone; much like Jung's new boat, with its wood varnish and red sails that his wife has given to him. He supposes that the pieces of himself- the legacy he plans to give Jung- has been judged completely unworthy.

Of course, Jung is a Protestant man with a wealthy wife. He wants for nothing in his life. He does not need to fear for prosecution; or to stay silent at the dinner table whiles jokes are made in his expense. He is, after all, not a Jew.

Freud knows that it is unseemly to behave so; that his bitterness might poison his relationship with Jung. No- this is the time for pretense, to sublimate his emotions and curve his lips into a smile. ]

The sea air makes it difficult to speak. [ Their words say nothing of each other. Words have always been the weapon of psychoanalysts - neither of them have said a single statement that can implicate themselves. ]

I would have thought the deck of the first class area would have a greater view.

lsdkjglkasjdg it's okay, as you can see...i am le slow

[somethingunforgivable]

Not in the early mornings. [ He is quiet, his words are impersonal and he has difficulty exploring the place that they had visited the night before. Jung does believe that by Freud analyzing his dreams, he has left a part of himself there. Perhaps that was why he felt no need to speak to him in that familiar way.

To treat him as an equal and always as a student. He would never - truly - be Freud's equal in the man's eyes.

The man he had so respected and admired was not so much his friend as his own psyhoanalyst. ]

If the sea air is making it difficult to speak, we should step inside.

[ After all, their conversations were all that they had. ]

WHY DID I NEVER GET THE NOTIF FOR THIS

[inestimablevalue]

[ It serves Freud's ego well that Jung seems to be grasping at the remnants of their relationship. He knows that it is a manner of pride, nothing particularly neurotic about it, but he still cannot help but be pleased.

Is this what the Father feels, he wonders, when his Son looks at him with hatred and admiration both in his eyes? Freud is a father, but his sons are not close to him. He has wrapped Jung around his heartstrings far more than he has his own son, and he thinks now that this is a mistake.

He hands this man a legacy, and he shatters it at Freud's feet. ]

Perhaps we should. [ Freud rocks backwards and stands up, taking a long drag from his cigar before he removes it from his mouth, blowing out a long, slow breath. He half-turns, unwilling to take the first step. ]

Shall we?

[somethingunforgivable]

[ Since Feud does not take that first step, he does. He turns completely and steps towards one of the doors that would take them inside. He did feel as if he was Freud's son, in a way. The one to inherit his legacy.

He knows that this is what it was like to be the son that would never quite fill his father's shoes.

He pulled open the door and step back, so not to be disrespectful. He would let the man step through first, in order to practice the courtesy that he knew he should have. The respect for his mentor that he did have - somewhere. He was grasping so desperately. ]

I will get us a table.