The Painted Kiss (26 page)

G
ustav and I returned to Vienna a few weeks later, but almost immediately I made plans to leave again, to go to the fall couture in Paris. I had talked about going for several years but I had never felt that I could leave the salon for such an extended length of time. Now the salon was running smoothly. Pauline handled the books, ordered supplies, and paid the bills. Helene kept the appointment book, received the clients, and kept them happy. I was in charge of design. The cutting and sewing rooms were my domain. Still, any one of the three of us could fill in for the others, at least for a little while. I could be away and feel confident that when I returned the salon would still be there. There would be no shoddy dress that fell apart, no mix-up with the orders, no mistake on the bills. No catastrophe would occur to ruin my reputation. And I needed to get away.

It was my first trip to Paris, my first time abroad, and I was alone. I expected to feel blue about it but I wasn’t. I stayed at a small hotel in the fashion district. My room was small but the walls were covered in wine-colored silk damask that matched the bed hangings. The restaurant downstairs served a lovely sole meunìere. The hotel was filled with dressmakers like me, from Berlin and London and Prague, and I quickly made friends. Our days were filled with tours of the fabric houses, Rodier and Lesure and Bianchini. We took the train to their factories outside of Paris and learned how the fabrics were made. We learned what innovations they were working on: stronger silk, synthetics, knits. I ordered all kinds of things. I attended mannequin shows put on by the couture houses, Worth and Poiret. Afterward I had appointments at each of them and bought their patterns for the spring season.

That was how we made most of our money, making up dresses with the Parisian patterns and altering them to suit our clients. As everyone says, the Parisian and the Viennese lady are differently shaped. Many of our clients were plump. Even a svelte Viennese lady had a bigger frame, more solid bones, and considerably larger bosom than the average Parisian. When I took the patterns home I adjusted them. It’s much harder than it sounds. You can’t just make everything a little bigger. It’s like building a sand castle: if you change one thing, even the slightest bit, everything else collapses and has to be reconfigured. Some people have a talent for it, can do it by feel, and I’m one of them. The proof was the popularity of the salon, not just when it was a novelty, but year after year.

It pained me a little bit that we couldn’t make a profit on Reform dress, but it was a limited market. We still made those styles, and some clients bought them, but not like they bought the latest from Paris.

Gustav sent me a postcard every day, sometimes several in a day, but I did not reply. I tried to put him out of my mind.

When I wasn’t working I went to the Louvre and walked the streets near my hotel. At night the other dressmakers and I went to dinner and to the theater and the opera. I went to the outdoor markets and found antique pasteboard jewelry and Moroccan blankets. One day we chartered an omnibus and toured Versailles.

The postcards from Gustav became more and more wheedling, more desperate. Where was I? What was I doing? Was I having so much fun that I couldn’t write? Was everything so tedious that I couldn’t write? Was the weather inclement? Was I sick? Sometimes I would write a postcard to him, a maddeningly short one, like: “Weather is cool and drizzly,” or, “Went to Rodin’s studio today.” And I would get a frantic missive back, anxious that I was dressing warmly and carrying my umbrella, or full of questions about Rodin that I would never answer. I must admit I enjoyed his obvious torment.

I stayed six weeks. I returned on a Friday and Gustav made me promise to come to the studio on Saturday. I spent the morning at the salon, catching up on what I’d missed. Pauline went over the new orders with me, and the seamstresses showed me what they were working on. My niece Helene was making up her first blouse and I gave her some advice on her basting technique. I pinned a skirt for Berta Zuckerkandl’s daughter Amalie. I was very happy to be back in my workshop, to dip my hand into the silver goblet and pull out a handful of straight pins. I relished the feel of the felt carpet under my feet, the clatter of the sewing machines, the rumble of the laundry trucks on the street below. I showed Helene the catalogs I had brought back and we went through them, trying to guess which would be our biggest sellers. They were baking cakes downstairs at the Café Piccola and Helene had made pecan short-bread cookies and hot chocolate especially for me. She was full of stories and gossip from the weeks I had been gone. I hated to leave, but I had promised, so at one o’clock I took the train to Hietzing.

When I arrived at the studio there was a boy lying on the grass in front of the house. With the overcast skies and cold wind the morning frost had not melted. I thought the boy must be dead, to lie there on the frozen ground. He lay face down and very still. He didn’t hear me until I was practically stepping on him. The portfolio next to him on the grass told me that he was one of the many students who were always accosting Gustav, begging him for his help. The better ones knew to write a letter and ask for an appointment. They arrived neatly groomed and on time and Gustav was invariably kind to them, even though most of them were hopelessly bad. This boy’s pants were three sizes too big and held up with a pair of hand-crocheted suspenders. His cuffs were unbut-toned and his dirty sleeves fanned out around his wrists. He was the worst-dressed artist I’d seen since the day I met Gustav.

He heard my footsteps and rolled over to face me. I saw a homely face, with a bent nose and wild hair and ears that stuck out absurdly. He was very young.

“He’s not home,” he said. “I rang the bell a half hour ago.”

That was very unlike Gustav, whose habits were extremely regular and who never ate lunch. I wondered if he might be sick. Or perhaps he was not answering the door in an effort to avoid the boy, who looked at me as if he expected me to join him on the grass.

“I have a key,” I said.

“Are you his wife?” he asked. I winced.

“No,” I said. He rolled to his side and propped his head on his hand.

“Are you his lover?”

“What a question!” I said. He shrugged.

“I guess that’s a yes.”

“What’s your name?” I asked. I thought it would be better if I got rid of him. Gustav could never deliberately hurt anyone’s feelings, especially not a fledgling artist, but I had no such qualms.

“Egon Schiele,” he said.

“Those are your drawings?” I said. “Would you mind if I looked at them?”

“Go ahead,” he said. “But even if you dislike them I’m not leaving until Klimt comes.”

I picked the portfolio up off of the grass and carried it to the front steps. Egon Schiele followed me and sat down next to me. I opened the portfolio.

I could see immediately that he was an excellent draftsman. There wasn’t a misplaced line to be seen. They only lacked some spark of interest or life to make them art.

“You’re at the Academy of Fine Art?” I asked. He nodded. “They make us do these ridiculous exercises there. You know, profile facing left, profile facing right, the bust of Voltaire. But near the back are some things of my own.”

These things of his own were drawings of a little girl, and they were like nothing I’d seen before. She was naked in a way that Gustav’s nudes were not. The young man used none of the formal devices others did to soften the angles, the protruding bones and awkward rolls of flesh. In the first one her hands were crossed in front of her and she leaned her weight on one hip. In the next she put her hands on her hips. Her gaze was matter-of-fact.

“My sister Gertie,” he said. Some of the drawings were colored in with chalk. I shivered as I looked at them. They were ugly, repulsive. His sister looked sick and deformed. Did he hate her, to draw her that way? More than ever I wanted him gone, but I had spent enough time around artists to recognize genius, and this warped boy had it. I sighed.

“Are you hungry?”

I let him in and made him a ham sandwich. He ate it ravenously. He told me that he’d been born in Tulln, that his father had died two years before, that he disliked the uncle who was now his guardian, and that he was never going to marry, he was going to live with his sister until he died. After he had eaten he wandered slowly around the studio as if it were a shrine. African sculpture, Noh masks, Japanese armor—Gustav had collected all kinds of art objects, which he displayed around the studio. Schiele examined everything carefully. He touched the half-finished canvas in the center of the room as if it were the Virgin’s foot.

When Gustav came back he explained that he had developed a craving for sausages and mustard that had to be satisfied. Instead of a sentimental reunion after weeks apart, we talked about bratwurst and I introduced him to the boy. Gustav looked slightly annoyed by the unexpected company but took the proffered portfolio and sat down on the chaise. I watched as Gustav flipped through the drawings, and knowing him as I did I saw the surprise and joy of discovery in his face. The boy, without such knowledge, fidgeted and pretended to examine a book of Japanese woodblock prints. Every few seconds he would sneak a glance at Gustav’s expression.

Still Gustav said nothing. He just kept looking. He was looking at the last drawing of Gertie and seemed unwilling to tear himself away from it. The boy’s careless ease was entirely gone. He was gnawing at his thumb.

“Put the boy out of his misery, Gustav,” I finally said. “He’s in agony over here.”

“Do you think I have talent?” the boy asked. It took Gustav a moment to answer, he was far away, in deep conversation with the boy’s drawing. There was a sickening pause. Then he roared with laughter. “Yes!” he said. “Much too much!” The worry left the boy’s face and he even smiled. Gustav clapped him on the back and nearly knocked him over. Then they talked art. Gustav quizzed him about his classes, what exercises he did, who his teachers were. When Gustav understood how poor the boy was he bought two of his drawings and invited him to dinner the following night.

At last he left and Gustav and I were alone.

“You see the winter came while you were away,” Gustav said.

“It would have come regardless,” I said. I wasn’t feeling sentimental. I walked around and looked at the canvases he was working on, as the boy had done. They looked much the same as when I left.

“I’m working on something new,” he said. “It’s taking up a lot of my time, doing the prepatory sketches.” He showed me a drawing of two lovers embracing.

The motif was not new; he had used it in the
Beethoven Frieze
he had done for the Secession exhibition of 1902. That was called
Here’s a Kiss to the Whole World!
He had done a similar cartoon for the mosaic frieze for the Palais Stoclet and had called it
Fulfillment
. But he had never executed the idea in an oil painting. He had never shown the image in isolation, only as one of a series of images.

“I think the idea can work by itself, don’t you? It’s so simple, yet so weighted with symbolism and emotion.”

“Like a Byzantine icon,” I said. He was using a lot of gold leaf and pattern in his work at that time. It all fit together.

Compositionally it was a tricky problem. In the
Beethoven Frieze
the figures had been nude and the man’s figure had completely covered and dwarfed the woman. That wouldn’t work for the painting. At least the woman’s face should be visible. Perhaps they should be in profile. None of the drawings he had done so far had really worked. He showed them to me, and we dismissed each one. He pulled out his sketchbook and we huddled over the page as he scribbled ideas. We tried out some possible poses, like actors blocking a scene.

“Suzanne is a fine model, but she doesn’t understand what I’m trying to do. And her body type is all wrong for this. I need someone else,” he said.

“What about Lise?” I said.

“Would you do it?” he said.

I thought he was joking. I hadn’t modeled since he painted my portrait. And I already had an occupation, and plenty to do.

“Who is going to model for the man?” I said. “You?”

“I don’t need a model for him,” he said. “He’s not important.”

Gustav hated to draw himself. In fact, in his thirty-year artistic career he put himself into a painting exactly once:
The Globe Theater,
one of the Burgtheater paintings. The only reason he painted himself in was because he needed a male figure and could not afford to hire a model and he had already put in Ernst, Georg, and Franz Matsch. He obscured his face with an enormous Elizabethan ruff and a well-placed shadow. From then on he made sure his own face and figure were never required for a painting. It helped that as he moved away from history painting he painted men less and less.

Maybe it was because he was ashamed of his physical imperfections. He was short, shorter than I was though neither of us mentioned it. Only vigorous exercise with dumbbells and long daily walks kept him from running to fat. He had lost most of his hair. So it may be vanity that kept him from self-portraiture, or its opposite. They are so hard to tell apart sometimes. I am not interested in painting myself, he said if a journalist asked him about it. Why would anyone want to look at a picture of me? I am interested in other people. I am interested in women particularly. He disliked interviews and rarely gave them. If you want to know about me and what I want, look at my paintings, he said to them.