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“You'll know yourself better after Vienna.” So begins an advertisement for the Austrian National Tourist Office appearing in Harpers (). The ad includes other “gems of the past” from writers who have tried to convey the essence of Vienna. Selectively happy, all the comments hail beguiling virtues of Vienna, tantalizing with promises of wine, music, and pastry. The first statement, however, is unique because it is not historical, unique because it bears a sobriety the others lack, and unique because its author is cited, evoking an almost eerie irony. This “late twentieth century introspection” comes from Nicola Freud, Sigmund Freud's great-granddaughter, and her words recall, as the ad says, “the deeper aspects of Vienna's personality.” Not only her words, but her name should conjure substantive thoughts of that city. Her ancestor was ignored and assailed in Vienna—or at least he believed he was — and, ironically, would scarcely have recommended a visit there or agreed that his city was a “never ending festival of life.” In this respect, the ad resembles Vienna: behind both are contradictions, deceptions with fragments of truth that signal hidden meanings.
In the midst of this dissimulation, Arthur Schnitzler, whom Freud called his Doppelgänger, and who, like Freud, was attracted to the therapeutic applications of cocaine and hypnosis, abandoned his medical practice to devote himself to uncovering hidden meanings and understanding the tensions and anxieties of Viennese citizens. If Freud practiced psychoanalysis as an art, it was Schnitzler who created art as psychoanalysis. The parallel between the two men is striking; indeed, both chose similar courses, sought to depict family, social, and private dramas (Johnston, 1972; Stern, 1962). But, unlike Freud's, Schnitzler's