“Toward the Volksgarten, then we can cut across to the Burgring. There'll be cabs outside the Court Theater.”
They set off slowly, passing a street vendor with a brazier covered in scorched kasekrainer sausages.
“Well, did you enjoy it?” asked Liebermann.
“It was wonderful,” Clara replied. “I was amazed. She is not a very large woman, yet she produced so much… noise!”
“Her technique is faultless. But I suppose that is to be expected from the pupil of such an illustrious teacher.”
The pianist-Ilona Eibenschutz-had been a pupil of Clara Wieck. Eibenschutz's program had included a poignant Romanze by her mentor, the Sonata Number 2 in G minor by her mentor's husband, Robert Schumann, and the Paganini Variations by their mutual friend Johannes Brahms. All of the works had been played with extraordinary passion, but Eibenschutz's rendition of the Paganini Variations had been truly astonishing: bravura playing of the highest calibre-the virtuoso's hands had become a barely visible blur as they leaped around the keyboard with infernal speed.
“He went mad, didn't he?”
Clara's voice sounded distant. The principal theme of the Paganini Variations was still occupying Liebermann's mind, providing the accompaniment to a dark ballet of strange fleshy images. It was like viewing one of Gustav Klimt's paintings through a wineglass.
“Max?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Liebermann realized that Clara had been talking while he had been lost in self-absorption.
“Robert Schumann. Herr Donner told me that Schumann went mad… He-that is, Herr Donner-has been teaching me Einsame Blumen, or trying to, at least.”
“A charming piece,” said Liebermann. “And yes, Herr Donner is quite right. Poor Schumann died in an asylum.”
“What was wrong with him?”
“That is a very interesting question. His symptoms have been the subject of much debate in medical circles. He became violent-he suffered from uncontrollable rages-and expressed grandiose ideas. At one point, I believe, he claimed to be in conversation with angels.”
They turned into a side street and left the sounds of Herrengasse behind them.
“But why did he go mad? How could such a great mind become so… disturbed?”
“Some have suggested that he never went mad at all-and that he was nefariously incarcerated by his wife.”
“But why would she do that?”
“In order to facilitate an illicit liaison with Brahms.”
Clara's eyes widened with interest. “Is that true?”
“Who knows? I doubt it. There are many independent accounts of Schumann's demise. He was certainly very ill. As to the exact cause… well, I did hear a rumor once.”
“Oh?”
“A few years ago I met a psychiatrist from Bonn. His father was also a psychiatrist and had once worked in the very same asylum where Schumann died. The old fellow was of the opinion that Schumann had paid the ultimate price…” Liebermann broke off and frowned, before continuing, “For an indiscretion of youth.”
Clara sighed. “Max. We are to be married. I am to be a doctor's wife. I assume you are referring to syphilis?”
Liebermann smiled.
“Yes, syphilis.” He said the word emphatically, but still felt uncomfortable naming the disease in Clara's presence.
“And syphilis causes madness?”
“Yes. It can do.”
“But wouldn't his wife…”
Liebermann anticipated the obvious question. “Syphilis has a long latency stage. Schumann and Wieck were married many years after the danger of infection had passed.”
Their conversation continued in a similar vein for some time. It was unusually muted and measured. So much so that Liebermann was inclined to reflect on the significance of Clara's little admonishment. Was the prospect of their pending marriage making her more thoughtful? More mature? And had he-again-been guilty of treating her like a child?
They entered the Volksgarten. The park had become an enchanted enclave, glittering with frost and moonlight. Low, heavy clouds passed overhead, like enormous sea creatures, and against the yellow luminosity of the city sky loomed the pitch-black classical edifice of the Theseus Temple-an exact replica of its original in Athens. As the couple drew closer, the structure grew more austere and uncanny. They veered toward it as if drawn by some mysterious, compelling charm. Silently, they ascended the steps.
For a moment, they paused and viewed their surroundings. Then they slowly turned to face each other. Clara leaned back against one of the great Doric columns. Her eyes seemed to feed on the darkness, becoming larger. She tilted her head back.
“Max…” She said his name softly and reached out. Her fingers found his and she pulled him forward.
They kissed. A prolonged, languid kiss that became-by degrees-more agitated. Clara, ordinarily the passive recipient of her fiance's amorous advances, responded with an unprecedented hunger, a greedy, sucking osculation. Liebermann's hands swept over her body, eventually discovering a vent through which he explored the warmth and softness beneath her coat. Clara moaned with pleasure.
They pulled apart-both of them shocked by their mutual abandon.
To conceal her shame, Clara buried her head in Liebermann's chest.
“I am sorry,” said Liebermann. “Forgive me…”
He looked up to the heavens but saw only the underside of the great architrave, from which massive icicles were suspended. He was reminded of the unfortunate Damocles, whose fate it was to attend a banquet seated beneath a sword hanging by a single hair.
“We are to be married,” said Clara softly. “If you wanted… I…”
“No,” said Liebermann. “No, it would be inexcusable. I will not take advantage of you. I will never take advantage of you.”
Clara nestled closer. Liebermann lifted his chin to accommodate her head. He could feel the hot pulse of her shallow exhalations on his bare neck. It was intolerably exciting. Even so, he did not move. Instead he stood still, gazing over Clara's hat at the locked, frozen world-his consciousness attenuated painfully between polarities of fire and ice.
22
ANDREAS OLBRICHT STOOD IN the middle of his studio. Condensation had frozen onto the windows, making them opaque and subduing the light. Propped up against the walls were some wooden frames for stretching canvases, some finished paintings, and a large full-length mirror. Olbricht studied his reflected image: a short man, wearing a soft cap and a brown, paint-spattered smock of coarse material. He affected a dignified pose.
The artist embarks upon the act of creation.
His gaze lingered on a smear of vermilion.
Turning, he walked across the bare floorboards to his table, where he examined his array of pigments: ocher, malachite, madder lake, raw sienna. The malachite caught his attention. He tipped some of the emerald powder into the mortar bowl and ground it with a wooden pestle. As he worked, he remembered his conversation with Von Triebenbach about Herr Bolle's commission. What scene from The Ring would he choose? The gods engulfed by fire, the ride of the Valkyries, Siegfried's funeral pyre? At that time he had been almost certain that the subject of the commission would be something heroic. Yet, as he worked on the preliminary sketches, another, quite different scene kept entering his mind-the tableau with which The Ring Cycle opens: the three Rhine maidens-Woglinde, Wellgunde, and Flosshilde-and the dwarf Alberich. This scene had kept on returning, asserting itself with something close to willfulness. Eventually he conceded, content to assume that a great work of art was struggling to be born.
Olbricht mixed some linseed oil into the powdered malachite and poured the mixture onto his palette. Then he turned and looked at the large canvas on his easel. The work was in its very early stages. Only the top left-hand corner had been colored with brushstrokes; the rest was still in sketch form. The figures had been executed using a red crayon, and Olbricht congratulated himself that the effect was not unlike a well-known Leonardo da Vinci cartoon.