The Flames, page 19
They walk through the streets of Vienna’s eighth district, then enter an overgrown garden, thick with foliage and flowers, a curved path leading to the front door of the studio. The windows of the one-storey building are wide open, and a woman can be heard singing. A black cat emerges from the undergrowth as they pass; it yawns and stretches its spine before nudging its head against Gertrude’s calf. She stops to pet it, running her hand along its body and tickling it under its chin. It purrs, circling.
‘We shouldn’t be here,’ she says. ‘He won’t want to see you.’
‘Just give me a couple of minutes. I only want him to look at my work.’
‘I don’t see why he’s special. What makes him better than all the other boring old men who paint all day?’
‘There’s no other artist in the whole of Austria that I admire more,’ her brother replies seriously. ‘He founded the Vienna Secession a decade ago.’
Gertrude looks doubtfully at her brother. ‘That means nothing to me.’
‘They want to break away from tradition. Klimt hates the conservatism of the past and wants to bring art into the modern world.’
‘New perspectives,’ Gertrude says, recalling Egon’s childhood fixation on the word.
‘You can see why I’m so drawn to him,’ he says.
‘I have noticed that you don’t like to follow the normal ways of doing things.’
‘Klimt proves it’s possible to do things differently.’
‘What if he says you’re wasting your time?’ Gertrude considers the possibility.
‘If he says I’m without merit, so be it.’
Gertrude looks at her brother. Is it possible that this man’s words could deter him?
She hangs back as Egon approaches the door and knocks. The singing continues, an operatic warble that doesn’t falter. He waits, running a finger beneath his collar to loosen it, before trying again. Eventually, the door opens a crack and Gertrude sees a flash of red hair – a darker, more burnt shade of her own. A pale face appears, the eyes wary. Egon speaks, and Gertrude watches as the girl, who can’t be much older than she is, shakes her head. She’s wearing a red kimono, her arms wrapped around her torso, her legs and feet bare. Gertrude experiences a jolt of envy.
The door closes between them and Egon returns, running his free hand through his hair. ‘He’s not in, the girl said. He won’t be back for a week.’
‘You don’t believe her?’
‘I think he’s in there, working.’
‘Let’s go, then. You can come back tomorrow. But for now, there’s still time for you to buy me that hot chocolate you promised me.’
The cat sidles up to her, and Gertrude pauses to stroke its fur once more. When she looks up, her brother is at the gate to the studio gardens, introducing himself to a man. He’s large, much older than Egon, with patches of pale-grey hair, and he’s wearing a strange blue smock. To Gertrude, it looks like a nightgown – she has certainly never seen a man wear such a thing in the daytime. The older artist waits patiently, his shopping basket placed on the ground, full of scrolls of paper, long brushes and paints. Her brother is fumbling with the clasp of his portfolio.
Egon presents the man with several drawings on pale-brown paper, then wipes his hands, which are slick with sweat, discreetly on his trousers. The man looks through the sketches, adjusting the angle of the works, his eyes probing the lines. Gertrude can see that her brother is holding his breath.
The seconds mount up, a minute passes. Egon seems to be shrinking on the spot. Then he takes a deep breath, and asks the question that Gertrude knows has plagued him, shaped him, ever since he was a child sitting on the platform, drawing the trains in Tulln.
‘Sir, may I ask, do I have talent?’
Everything, for her brother, Gertrude knows intimately, hinges on this moment.
‘How old are you?’ the man replies, frowning.
Gertrude spots the model with red hair watching them from the window.
‘I’m seventeen, sir.’
‘And what training are you undertaking?’
‘I’m at the Academy of Fine Arts, the same one you attended. My tutors are bores who insist I draw more conservatively. They reprimand me at every turn.’
‘They do, do they?’
‘I want to form my own art group, as you did.’
‘You’re ambitious, that’s for certain. And you want my opinion on your talent?’
‘I want to know if I’m right to sacrifice everything for art, sir.’
The man laughs, a deep guttural sound that rises from his generous belly.
‘Talent?’ he repeats, looking closely at Egon’s work. He shakes his head and Egon goes pale. ‘It’s as clear to me as my own name that, if anything, you’ve much too much. And I know well the sacrifices you speak of – they never get any easier,’ the older man adds.
Her brother loosens, a smile breaking across his face.
Something releases in Gertrude, too, and she approaches. The man notices her, and she can feel the weight of his appraisal as it searches her face and scans her body. She experiences a frisson, caught between fascination and fear of him and his authority. His presence is formidable.
‘Perhaps we could make an exchange of drawings – you can keep those,’ her brother says, gesturing to the works in his hand. ‘And I could have just one of your sketches?’
The man laughs again. ‘Your confidence is refreshing. You remind me of myself, thirty years ago. But why swap with an old man? You already draw better than I do.’
Her brother becomes bolder. ‘They told me I was delusional – my teachers, my family, my tutors.’ Egon fizzes with jubilation. ‘Thank you.’
‘Now, I must be going,’ Klimt says. ‘I have lunch with someone special. But I hope to see you again soon, young man. What did you say your name was?’
19
September 1910
Gertrude arrives at her brother’s latest apartment studio on Alserbachstrasse, in Vienna’s ninth district, at five o’clock in the afternoon, as arranged. They plan to go to the Park-Kino picture house, but Egon isn’t ready. He rages from across the room that a model failed to arrive as planned, and it has cost him a day’s progress. He has a commission and has waited all day for the wastrel to show her face, feeling more and more wretched with every passing minute.
‘Every model I’ve ever worked with has been late at some time or another,’ he says, ‘I hoped this one would be different. I’d even mixed my paints. Now they’re ruined.’
Gertrude rubs her finger across her brother’s palette of pigments, a hard crust on their surface. She reads the names on the tubes: orpiment yellow, vermilion and verdigris.
Egon clears his throat, complains he has another headache. ‘They’ve been coming more and more frequently,’ he says. ‘I’ve eaten nothing all day.’ He runs a knife unevenly through a loaf of bread and spreads the slice with butter.
‘What about all your other models?’ Gertrude asks. ‘You’re usually boasting that you see more women than the Emperor, that you can’t keep up with them all.’
Egon closes his eyes. ‘They’ve all let me down, in one way or another.’
‘It can’t be that bad. You’ve still got time, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve got people breathing down my neck, debtors knocking at the door at all hours … I’ve lost track of what I owe and where. I’ve used up all of my chances with Uncle. He’s still barely forgiven me for our jaunt to Trieste.’ Gertrude reddens. Although that was three years ago now, Egon still blames her for all the trouble they got into – even though the trip had been his idea in the first place.
‘I’ll pose for you,’ she says, ‘if that would help. We can see the motion picture another time.’
‘No,’ he says.
‘I used to do it when we were children,’ she says. ‘And many times here in Vienna. Remember that silly hat?’
‘No,’ he repeats.
Gertrude jabs a dry paintbrush at him.
‘I’m not as pretty as the other girl you hoped would show up today, is that it?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he snaps.
‘Then why?’
‘Because I need a nude. You’d have to take off your clothes. All of them.’
Gertrude stops. ‘I’ve done that before, too.’
‘We were children then, we hardly knew better. This work is for an upcoming show. It’s far more likely that people will see it. It would do untold damage to your reputation.’
‘What reputation?’ she snorts.
‘Flaunting yourself in a piece of art that will be seen by Vienna’s high society isn’t likely to impress potential suitors.’
‘You sound like Mother!’ Gertrude scoffs. ‘I hardly think I’d be interested in the kind of man who’d be offended.’
‘You wouldn’t like it. You’re too impatient, easily distracted,’ Egon argues.
‘That’s not true. I’m like a statue.’ She strikes a pose, foot raised, then wobbles.
Egon musters a laugh.
‘I’m serious, though. The commission is for a nude.’
‘I want to do it,’ she says. ‘For you. I’ll turn my face, nobody will know it’s me.’
‘And you’re not allowed to say you don’t like it afterwards.’
‘Do you need a model, or not?’ Gertrude asks her brother.
He shakes his head. ‘I can’t say I’m happy about this.’
‘You don’t need to be happy, you just need to pick up a brush and paint.’
Gertrude is dozing on the day cot. Her brother is in the armchair. She returned early that morning to allow Egon to complete the painting.
Egon leaps at the sound of three raps on the door to his apartment.
‘It’ll be the bailiffs again,’ he hisses. He looks through the peephole, then steps back. He holds a finger to his lips.
The knock comes again, a gentle rap. He opens the door and peers out.
Through the opening, Gertrude can see a blonde girl with pale skin.
‘Egon Schiele?’ she asks. ‘We met at Schönbrunn. I’m here for your painting.’
Egon reaches into his pockets and rummages around, then places the coins he finds in the woman’s hands. ‘The position is now filled,’ he says.
‘But you asked me to come.’ Her eyes are wary.
‘Yesterday. I needed you urgently yesterday.’
He closes the door on her. Gertrude can hear her protesting all the way back down the stairs. While he goes to brew some coffee, she wanders over to Egon’s desk. There’s a photograph in the open drawer: Egon, clowning around, his face and body contorted in a silly pose, sitting on a bench alongside a dashing, slightly older man. The inscription reveals the man’s name to be Anton Peschka, one of Egon’s friends. She shuffles through Egon’s sketches, his calling cards. His diary from the start of the year shows the name ‘Liliana’, circled, three or four times a week. After July, it does not appear again. Gertrude removes a note from a rough envelope, tucked in the back: I thought you’d want to know. It finally arrived on 9 August. A baby girl. LA.
‘Just my luck,’ Egon says, returning with the coffee pot. Gertrude takes the only cup – chipped – and places it on the table.
The finished artwork looks back at them from the other side of the room. It is otherworldly in its beauty and strangeness. Gertrude has certainly never seen anything like it. In it, she’s alone on the page, suspended like a rabbit pulled from a magician’s hat. She appears to be sitting on an invisible chair, her knees tucked tightly together, the curve of her buttocks drawing the eye to the sharp dip of her waist, to her belly button, her breasts. Her right arm seems unnaturally long, bent in a triangle, touching the back of her head. It was excruciating to hold that pose for so long and, after a while, her fingers had begun to tingle and go numb.
Egon and Gertrude share the single cup of black coffee, sipping it in silence.
Suddenly, there’s a louder, firmer bang at the door.
‘I’ve already told you,’ Egon says as he opens it. ‘You’re too late!’
But it’s not the pale-faced girl on the other side, it’s a large man, his face red.
‘Schiele? You owe my daughter money. You invited her here and didn’t pay up.’
‘I needed her yesterday. I had to find someone else.’
The man barges into the apartment and sees Gertrude, who is standing by the window.
‘So you’re taking advantage of another young girl, are you?’
‘Please leave,’ Egon says. ‘You’re upsetting my sister.’
The man looks from Gertrude to her brother and back. Then he spots the artwork, which still isn’t dry.
‘Your sister lets you paint her, breasts, buttocks and all, does she?’
‘If your daughter had shown up as agreed, it wouldn’t have been necessary.’
‘My daughter, pose for you like that? Over my dead body! You should be locked up.’
Egon is silent. The man takes a step closer. ‘You listen to me,’ he sneers into her brother’s face. ‘Don’t you go approaching young girls on the street. Don’t invite them to your apartment, pretending it’s all about art, or whatever you call it. You’re a menace to society. You’ll land in serious trouble one of these days.’
‘I’ve not done a thing wrong,’ Egon says.
‘You’re a pervert, a pornographer, from the looks of that.’ He points.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I could use some of these’ – he holds a drawing aloft – ‘to wipe my arse.’ He turns to Gertrude. ‘And you! You should be ashamed of yourself, flaunting all that flesh like a common whore. You’d get more on the street than you’ll get from him in payment.’
‘Get out!’ Gertrude shouts into his face. ‘You’re the one with the sick mind, not my brother, you hypocrite.’
20
26 May 1911
My dearest Gerti. It would be my pleasure if you’d accept this invitation to visit me in Krumau. I’ve missed you terribly. The days are too long without you. I’ve secured a cottage for the summer. Do hurry! I cannot wait to see you.
Gertrude reads the letter a second time. She’s about to leave for work. She has secured a job at a department store, where she models fancy dresses to encourage rich women, with far thicker waists than she has, that they will look just as elegant in the outfits she displays. With the additional income, she, Mother and Melanie have now been able to rent a small apartment of their own. Gertrude tucks the letter into her handbag. Her colleagues will not tolerate tardiness – if she’s late again, she will be fired.
These days she barely thinks about Egon, much less expects him to write. In fact, he does it so infrequently that the very shape of his handwriting changes from one missive to the next.
But she will ask her boss for time off, she decides. A few days away to visit her brother, the exalted artist, who she has not seen in a long time.
Gertrude arrives in Krumau by train and, having written ahead to Egon to tell him the time of her arrival, is bemused to discover that he’s not there to meet her at the station. She waits – no doubt her brother remains the kind of man who often runs late. After fifteen minutes, she can no longer bear the glances she is eliciting from strangers and resolves to set off by herself. She will find her way. Egon will be known in this town, having made a reputation for himself already, no doubt.
Gertrude begins to descend the steps to the historic centre as the sun begins to set. It has been a few years since the Schiele family visited Krumau, the red-roofed town where her mother was born. Going down is easier on the calves. Perhaps that’s why Egon has not met her – climbing up is too much effort. Behind her, Gertrude hears rushing footsteps. A hand lands on her shoulder. She turns with a scowl.
‘Excuse me, I don’t suppose you’re Fräulein Schiele, are you?’ A man with a little moustache and apple-cheeks is addressing her. ‘Do excuse my familiarity. I was back there, at the station.’ He points. ‘I noticed you waiting on the platform. I suspect we were both waiting for the same person. Your brother?’ Gertrude screws up her eyes. ‘He was supposed to meet me here. He mentioned you were arriving on the same train and said we could all walk to the cottage together.’ He holds his hand out. ‘I should introduce myself. Anton Peschka. Egon must have mentioned me? We studied at the Akademie together. Rivals in art, but firm friends in life!’
‘Gertrude,’ she says, presenting him with her hand. Egon hadn’t mentioned that anyone else would be there during her stay. Not only that, but he has orchestrated it so they must escort each other to the cottage. ‘And no,’ she adds, slightly riled, ‘I can’t recall him mentioning you.’
The man shuffles his valise from one hand to the other. ‘Well, he’s mentioned you. I’ve seen his drawings.’
Gertrude feels a blush rushing to her cheeks. Most husbands don’t see as much of their wives.
‘Follow me,’ she says, flinching, then stops and passes him her case. ‘Would it be inconvenient for you to carry mine, too?’
Egon greets them at the door, and immediately thrusts a glass into Anton’s hand.
‘Gerti, you look sensational,’ he says. ‘What a delicate wisp you are!’
She lets him embrace her and offers him her cheek. She has to admit, it’s good to have his arms around her. He has filled out since she last saw him. She takes in his broader shoulders, a slight protrusion of stomach above his trousers. He’s looking after himself very well indeed.
