The Flames, page 31
‘How does a respectable man such as that end up with an artist for a son?’ Papa mused out loud. Egon suffered a moment’s silence. Papa realized he’d gone too far, for he turned the conversation. ‘Your means are not stable, but adequate, so you’re asking me to place my faith in your potential. The stakes are very high. This is my daughter we’re talking about. Are you a man who’s capable of making sacrifices?’
‘I’ve made countless sacrifices for my art.’
‘Your art! I want to know if you can make sacrifices for your family. Can you follow a straight path, stay out of trouble?’ He paused. ‘Will you put Adele first?’
‘Edith,’ the young man said simply.
‘What could you possibly want with Edith? Adele’s the one who should marry first. Edith’s too young, you must see that.’ Papa sounded as if he was in pain.
‘She’s twenty-two. My mother was five years younger when she married.’
‘She’s delicate,’ her father warned.
‘She’ll cope perfectly well,’ Egon replied.
‘No, it’s simply impossible.’
Edith felt dizzy.
‘I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love.’
‘Love! You young men, always confounding expectations.’ Papa paused. ‘You’ve got some nerve, son. Now, you’ve said what you came to say. My coffee’s cold. I’ll think on it. Will that satisfy you for now?’
‘I’ll return later for your answer.’
‘I’ll need to discuss this with my wife. Nothing happens around here without her say-so, let me tell you. You’ve a lot to learn.’
‘This morning, a young man was here,’ Papa said later, entering the room Edith shared with Adele. ‘He arrived at our door with a proposition.’ Edith looked at her father, frowning, taking in the bottle of cognac and two glasses he held in his hands. ‘The artist,’ he said, setting the items down.
Edith straightened the remaining cards in her hands, noticing that the cognac was well below the pencil line that her mother drew on it each night. She moved her head to encourage Papa to continue, unable to trust herself to speak. Her father filled one glass and held it out to her. He’d never offered his daughter alcohol before. The scorched smell of it was terrible.
‘The artist is keen to marry,’ Papa continued. He positioned himself at the foot of Adele’s bed and coughed into a silk handkerchief. ‘He wants to marry you.’
Edith dropped her playing cards and rose to her feet. ‘And what did you say?’
‘That you were too young and too sensitive to marry an artist. But he wouldn’t be swayed.’
Edith reddened and her heart was pounding. Things had moved far quicker than she’d ever imagined and this made it all too real. This was what she wanted, but it was also the point of no return, when she had to choose between the artist and her sister.
‘What about Adele? She will be terribly unhappy about this.’
‘He was clear. Edith, he said. So here we are.’ Papa examined his hands. ‘This war is doing untold damage. Battle brings spectacular upheaval. We’re already feeling the repercussions. Belts are tightening, food is harder to come by, fuel is running low and the hostility grows. Many of my former colleagues are feeling the strain financially. For some, it may end in bankruptcy. Even Herr Bron is struggling.’ He looked away. ‘I must tell you something …’ She’d never seen Papa like this, so ragged. ‘We’ve been dealt a bad hand. There’s no money for second chances. In fact, there’s scarcely any money at all.’ The family finances had hardly entered Edith’s thoughts. She knew the war had made things scarce, but now that her father had confessed the truth about their situation, she recognized the small economies that were being made, the household damage that had gone unrepaired, the smaller cuts of meat, the strain in Hanna’s eyes.
‘Egon Schiele is far from being my first choice of husband for you,’ he said. ‘But circumstances have conspired against us. Young men have been sent away to fight. Married, you’ll have a place. Unwed, you may be waiting a long time for our soldiers to return.’
‘So I’m to marry the artist?’ Edith said, her voice faltering.
‘Do you want to?’ Her father looked up, as if seeing her properly for the first time.
The chambers of Edith’s heart constricted, caught between conflicting desires. On one side there was the deep love she held for her sister. She knew how much this course of action would hurt Adele. To agree would be to cut her down, as if Adele were a tree, Edith wielding the sharpened axe. On the other side was Egon, and a future by his side. Edith saw herself coming into bloom, unfurling from the old ideas about who she was and turning into this new version of herself. To say no to her father now would be to nip that woman in the bud, deny her, take away the source of light she gravitated towards. She weighed up her loyalties. Edith would lose part of herself, whichever way she turned. It was impossible to have both – a relationship with her sister and a relationship with Egon. But she had to make a choice.
She looked into her father’s eyes and said, ‘I do.’
Then she began to cry.
3
June 1915
The carriage pulls to a stop on Hietzinger Hauptstrasse. Egon gets out first and holds the door open for Edith. ‘My wife!’ he says theatrically, and offers her his hand. She takes it. Her feet still tingle from the wedding waltzes she performed with Egon and their guests late into the night. They had danced together in front of everyone. At one point Egon had taken her by the waist and dipped her back, her pearls skimming the underside of her chin as she hung as gracefully as she could from his arms. Egon even succeeded in dancing with Mutti, much to her chagrin. Without a father of the groom, Edith had partnered with Egon’s brother-in-law, Anton. He had taken her energetically around the room, spinning her off her feet with an elegance and strength she’d not expected. Edith had laughed, out of breath, while Gertrude glared at the pair of them.
Of course, the wedding reception had been smaller and more restrained than what might have been expected before the war. But the families and friends had shared a modest meal in the side room of a respectable restaurant and, afterwards, the tables had been pushed to the sides as the music began.
Now Edith stands in the middle of the street that she has lived on her entire life. She looks up at the windows of the tall apartment building she’d left that morning, at the entrance through which she has walked all those times without a second thought. Egon takes her arm and turns her towards another door. He reaches into his jacket for the key. Edith can feel the sting of hidden eyes on her as clearly as if a hand were nipping at her back.
‘Hurry, please,’ she says. Egon opens the door, then sweeps his arms beneath her to carry her into the building. ‘Really!’ she laughs. ‘Put me down.’ Edith feels heavy, cumbersome, in his arms. She shifts her weight and kicks her feet.
‘It’s not often I say it, but some traditions,’ Egon says, ‘should be maintained.’ Edith’s ankles bash against the door frame. Adele’s laughter rattles in her head.
Back on her own feet, they climb the stairs to Egon’s apartment.
‘Your new abode, Frau Schiele,’ he announces. ‘I intend to make you very comfortable here. You must make yourself at home.’
Edith walks into the large open space. She intends to brighten the place up. Egon’s painting and drawing equipment overwhelms the room. She’ll buy colourful fabrics to make rugs and cushions and fill the space with leafy plants. Egon’s easel is set up in front of the bay window. She notices that to the left of it is a large ink stain across the wall, great splatters dried into the plaster. Edith is surprised that the spill wasn’t cleaned up at the time.
There’s also a wall of books, a desk, a chair, and a gigantic mirror. Edith stands before it. The heavy cream wedding dress isn’t as bad as she thought. But still, she’s surprised at how uneasy she always manages to appear, her arms straight before her, the tips of her fingers resting nervously against her thumbs. She almost looks idiotic.
Very soon, she’ll be expected to perform the duties of a wife. She has no doubt that Egon will know what to do, even if she has no idea.
Edith watches as her reflection steps out of the frame of the mirror. She walks past the kitchenette towards the bedroom. She passes a small room with a sink, a speckled mirror and a washbasin, with a damp flannel draped across the ledge. Edith brushes her fingers over Egon’s cologne, his cracked soap, his razor in its pouch, cataloguing their positions. She notices that there is stubble clinging to the enamel of the washbasin; she runs her little finger around the inner curve, then blows the residue from the tip.
Egon is in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, his feet up, his shoes kicked off, rolling a cigarette. His shirtsleeves are turned up and all the buttons down the front are undone, revealing his chest. This man, her husband, is still little more than a stranger.
Three large trunks of Edith’s belongings were delivered to his apartment earlier that day, and she goes to them now, keeping her back to Egon. They are full of brocade skirts, loose tea gowns for the afternoon, lace-trimmed petticoats and frilly bloomers. Edith kneels to open one and removes her nightgown, which she had placed on the very top that morning. It’s freshly laundered. She removes what she’ll need to prepare for bed: her wash things, a sleeping bonnet, a silver-handled hairbrush.
Edith carries them to the privacy of the bathroom. Egon runs his tongue along the rolling paper of his cigarette, his eyes on her. He looks mildly amused, but it’s unfathomable to Edith that she might undress in front of him. No husband would expect that of a wife.
Many minutes later, Edith emerges. She carefully twists the knob of the bedroom door, not wanting to disturb Egon, but he’s still awake, fully dressed, sitting on the bed reading. Light music plays quietly from a gramophone in the corner.
‘Well, you look … very neat,’ he says, the sides of his mouth twitching.
Edith can hear his tone is teasing. ‘This is what I always wear to bed.’ The hem of her loose, long-sleeved nightdress sweeps the floor. It is buttoned carefully up her neck. Her hair has been brushed one hundred times, plaited and tucked away under her bonnet.
‘Well, for a start, we won’t be needing this.’ Egon stands, walks over to her, then undoes the white ribbon under her chin, pulling on its length until the bonnet shifts and her plait comes tumbling out. He lets the bonnet drop, then holds her braid in his fingers, bringing the tip to his lips.
‘But …’ Edith says, pulling away slightly. Egon undoes the buttons at her throat. One by one, his fingers do the work. He’s gentle, but insistent. Edith can’t swallow her fear.
Egon pulls her close, breathes into her exposed neck. ‘You’ll enjoy it,’ he says. ‘In fact, you’ll learn to love it. This is what couples do.’ He steps from his trousers, then leads her towards the bed. Egon wants what is owed to a husband. He loosens the last buttons on her nightgown and pulls it up over her head. ‘There’s so much material!’ he says, holding the fabric aloft, daring her to reclaim it.
He throws the gown across the room and it lands in a heap by the door. Then he removes his white shirt. Edith is embarrassed. She has never seen a man exposed in this way before. Egon’s chest is pale, his muscles slender beneath his skin. There are a few dark hairs between his nipples. His forearms and torso are sprinkled with freckles. Edith notices a leaf-shaped birthmark on his hip.
Egon eases her back, gently, on to the pillows, then takes her wrists and straightens them above her head. He looks at her with an artist’s eye, but there’s a hunger there that’s not professional. Egon does not rush. He lies next to Edith and strokes her skin, starting at her hips and moving up. She’s electrified.
Disgust, desire. She thinks of Adele. Shame.
She can’t take it any more. She runs to the bathroom.
Egon gives her a moment, then comes to the door. He speaks from the other side. ‘Edith, come on, don’t cry. It’s not such a terrible thing.’
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I won’t.’
‘My mother was the same. On her wedding night, she locked herself in the bathroom and refused to come out. It sounds strange, but in a way it pleases me to see history repeating itself.’ Edith doesn’t reply. ‘Of course, so the story goes, as a result my father went to visit a prostitute, and that’s how he contracted the syphilis that sent him mad and eventually killed him. So maybe some parts of history are best left forgotten.’
Edith strokes the back of the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ he adds. ‘I’ll be here, waiting. Take your time. I’ll entertain myself with Rimbaud.’
Edith hears Egon step away from the door.
She looks around the space, her heart pounding. She wanted this, she made it happen. And now … Edith cannot shake the sickening sense that she has done something wrong. She looks at her hands. How strange it is, to wear a ring, this gold band that rubs against her skin. It belongs to her. She slips it off, and looks at it. Inside are two elegant initials: E & E.
It moves something so deep inside her it hurts.
Then her eyes fall on the blade of Egon’s razor.
Her husband knocks once more on the door. ‘Edith? What’s going on in there? Are you unwell? It’s been almost an hour.’
She doesn’t reply. Egon tries the door and it opens, a little. He exerts more force and is able to squeeze through. Edith is lying on the floor, curled up. She has been crying. His razor glints in her hand. There’s blood on the blade.
‘Edith, this is no joke!’
He runs his hands over her body, her wrists, looking for the source. He lifts her hands to reveal thin slices on her thigh. Angular lines have been scratched into her skin.
There’s an A, a D.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ he asks, his voice tight and scared. Egon grabs a flannel and tries to soak away the blood, but it only exposes the lines of the cuts.
ADELE.
Edith has cut the word into her skin. She has caused her sister so much pain by marrying the man she loves. And oh, the guilt she feels for the pleasure that is promised by him. She can’t escape the pain she has caused.
‘It hurts,’ Edith whispers, her eyes closed.
Egon pulls her to him. ‘Hush.’ He rocks her, for a long time, until all the tension in her dissipates. Her fingers tighten around his arms and she can hear his heart beating.
‘You chose the wrong sister,’ Edith says.
‘What? Is that what this is about? You think I should have married Adele?’
‘She’d make a better wife for you. She’d know what to do.’
‘Adele always scared me, truth be told.’
‘She believed you were going to marry her.’
‘But I didn’t give her any reason to think that. I never felt anything for Adele.’
‘You broke her heart. Then I broke it again when I accepted your proposal.’
‘Edith, look at me.’ He holds her face in his hands. ‘Love doesn’t work that way. You can’t make conscious choices, that would be absurd. You find yourself in love, and it’s always unexpected. The joy is that it takes you by surprise.’
‘Do you … love me?’ Edith asks.
‘Of course. The first time I saw you,’ he adds, ‘something leapt inside me. The more I got to know you, the more it grew,’ Egon says. ‘That’s the beginning of a great love, I’m sure of it.’
He pauses, repeats her question back to her.
‘I don’t know,’ Edith whispers. ‘I have no idea how love is supposed to feel.’
‘It’s meant to feel warm, and safe. It’s meant to feel as if we have all the time in the world and we only want to spend it with each other.’ Egon rubs his hands up her bare arms.
‘Adele will never forgive me.’
‘She will forgive you. She’s your sister. I promise. All this will be forgotten.’
Egon kisses Edith. He holds her. ‘Now?’ he asks. ‘Are you ready? I hope you are.’
Her husband leads her back to the bedroom. He lays her down and pulls the blankets over them both. Edith closes her eyes as he enters then pushes himself in deeper. Blood soaks into the sheets. Pain throbs from the cuts on her thigh and between her legs.
And pleasure? It blooms.
4
June 1915
Edith wakes when the light can’t be denied any more. She hears her husband moving around in the kitchen. Before long, the smell of coffee reaches her. He brings her a cup in bed. The rim of it is chipped. ‘Cream, please,’ Edith says, dressing.
He comes back. ‘We’ve no cream, but I added a little sugar.’
It still tastes bitter.
‘I’ll be working in the main room,’ Egon says, ‘where the light is best. I intend to start a painting of you, The Artist’s Wife. The first step is to prepare the canvas.’
It feels strange to wake up in such a different space, in a bed that’s made for two. The sheets are twisted – the bottom one is stained with blood – and the blankets have been pushed to the foot of the bed. The pain between her thighs is pulsing and sharp. The blood has dried, and Edith scrapes a little off with her fingernail, wincing as she does. The lines she has cut into her flesh will take months to heal. The scars might last a lifetime.
Edith takes her embroidery hoop from the trunk and begins working on a piece she’d hoped to have finished by now – she’s talented with needle and thread, conjuring scenes, patterns, poems. It’s a gift for Egon – his name and hers. She wants to hang it somewhere in their home. Perhaps it can sit alongside Egon’s artworks, in the main room? She harbours the hope that his subject matter will change now that he’s a married man. No more nudes, surely?
She works for an hour while Egon paints. She hears him moving around and enjoys this feeling of accomplishment. It’s official – she is no longer a child, and the physical act was not as brutal as she’d expected. She enjoyed the recklessness of it, and wonders what will happen next.
There’s the ringing of a bell. ‘I’ll go down,’ Egon shouts.
