Damned by the Ancients

by Catherine Cavendish

  Little by little her face took shape. The more it did so, the more anxious he became. Never had a subject had such an effect on him. Finally, one more touch and she would be complete.

  He stepped back. The sketches reflected his subject perfectly. He had done well. His client should be satisfied and Klimt could get on with the finished portrait he had been commissioned for—and the sooner he could begin, the sooner the project would be complete.

  Klimt was cleaning his brushes when he heard a knock at the door. Quintillus was alone this time.

  “The lady is indisposed?” Klimt asked.

  “No. She will return again when she is needed. Today I need to explain what must be done when you begin the portrait. There will be no painting today.”

  Was he seriously attempting to tell Klimt how to work? The artist forced himself to remember the unpaid bills and bit his tongue.

  He showed Quintillus the colored sketches.

  “Excellent work, Herr Klimt. This is what I have been looking for.”

  “Thank you, Herr Ziegler.”

  Quintillus removed a small drawstring bag from his pocket and laid it on the table.

  “I need you to mix this into every paint you use. Make certain to use it all and to spread it evenly among the different components of the picture. It is vital you do as I describe.”

  “I do not mix anything into my paints,” Klimt replied. “If I do so I cannot vouch for the durability of the painting. Texture is so important.”

  “It must be done, Herr Klimt. I can assure you that nothing untoward will occur with regard to your oils.”

  “What is it, anyway?”

  Quintillus opened the drawstring and poured a tiny quantity onto his hand. He held it out to Klimt.

  “Ash?”

  Quintillus withdrew his hand and carefully poured the substance back into the bag. “Of a type,” he said. “You don’t need to know any more about it. But I need your assurance that you will do exactly as I say.”

  “As long as it doesn’t affect the integrity of the work, I will do as you request.”

  “Then we understand each other, Herr Klimt. I will bring your subject here tomorrow and you can carry on your work.”

  * * * *

  Over the next weeks, life took on a familiar routine. Most days, Quintillus brought the woman to the studio and waited in the living room, usually reading a book he brought with him, or writing in one. Two hours later, he would depart with her and never once did the woman utter one word. Maybe she couldn’t speak, but she never attempted to communicate in any way. Klimt had used a deaf model who was also mute, but she still managed to communicate with him. Most effectively. Especially in bed. There would be no question of trying to break through the icy barrier surrounding this woman, though. However much he might have wanted to try.

  Klimt mixed the ash with the paint exactly as Quintillus had directed. Fortunately, it seemed to dissolve on impact with the oil and had no effect on the texture whatsoever, much to Klimt’s relief. He fancied that saying “no” to Quintillus would never result in a positive outcome.

  The portrait took shape. The rich oil colors brought it alive far more than the vivid sketches. The day he finished painting her eye, he allowed himself a small celebration. A bottle of rich red Burgenland wine. More as a reward for his perseverance than for creating a new masterpiece. He would have welcomed company that night, but his frequent companion—Emilie—had gone away to the countryside for the summer.

  “It’s you and me,” he said to the cat. “And you don’t drink.”

  He poured himself a generous glass of wine, ripped off a hunk of fresh, crusty bread and cut a wedge of cheese. The cat scampered off out of the studio.

  The portrait stood on his easel and he looked at it now. The eye seemed to reprove him as he ate and drank.

  “As if you were such an innocent yourself, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing to her in mock obeisance. “Your Egypt made the Roman Empire look like a child’s party. So many intrigues. So much incest and murder.”

  The steady gaze of the eye he had painted never wavered. There seemed so much intelligence behind it.

  “What am I thinking? Am I going mad? I painted it.”

  He stood, went over to the easel and touched the surface with the tip of his finger. The paint was dry to the touch but its graininess revolted him. Must be the ash. He returned to his chair and hesitated, unable to escape the feeling that, in defiance of all logic, that eye really could follow his every move. An artist’s trick he often used. So why did it feel different this time?

  Slightly unsteadily, he left the studio, taking his wine and food with him. He sat in his living room and finished off the bottle.

  Later, he fell into bed and to sleep within seconds.

  * * * *

  He woke up suddenly. Dawn hadn’t yet arrived and the room was black. From somewhere close by he heard a scratching. The cat probably. Maybe he wanted to go out.

  Klimt got out of bed and padded, barefoot, out of his room. No sign of the cat. He opened his front door. All lay still in the darkness. He closed it again and made for the studio.

  At first glance, everything seemed in its place. The scratching noise had stopped. He went over to his easel and stopped dead in his tracks.

  The portrait had gone.

  The cat wandered in, stopped in his tracks, his fur bristling, then turned tail and fled. What have you seen, little one? What has frightened you so much?

  Klimt searched the room. Paintings in various stages of completion lay propped up on the floor. He made a systematic search but the portrait wasn’t among them. Then he saw it.

  For a split-second, out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn it stared at him full-face, but when he registered it properly, there it was, exactly as he had painted it.

  But it shouldn’t be there.

  He had drunk a bottle of wine. His memory might be faulty. But never would he prop up an unfinished painting on the mantelpiece. That’s what the cat had seen and been so frightened by.

  Klimt returned the painting to his easel, shook his head, and returned to bed.

  The next morning, he mixed his paints as usual, stared at the portrait, and ran to the bathroom, where he lost his breakfast.

  Spitting and wiping his hand across his face, Klimt gasped for breath. The vomiting had been violent, unexpected. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. He ran cold water and splashed his face. Droplets clung to his beard and he wiped them off with a towel.

  All day he worked on the portrait, longing to be done with it. The woman no longer came to sit for him and he was glad of it. He didn’t need her for his work any longer and he found her continued presence unsettling. Tomorrow, he would begin on the gold leaf—a delicate and painstaking job, especially given the cost of the material. His father had taught him to work with gold and it had become his trademark medium. He had virtually covered his latest major work in it. Little wonder he never seemed to have any money.

  That night, noises woke him again. This time, he lay in bed, trying to make out what they were. Scratching. In the walls. Rats, perhaps? But his cat had proven time and again to be an excellent mouser and ratter, and if there had been an infestation, would have been the first to know about it and the one who would have dealt with it. Anyway, this sounded different. It didn’t sound like an animal at all. More like… He didn’t know why, he felt certain the sound came from a human.

  A human, trapped in the walls and scratching to get out.

  Impossible.

  But the thought persisted.

  Still unable to sleep, he got up and tried to follow the sound to its source. He got as far as the studio when it stopped.

  Klimt strained to hear. He leaned against the wall, but nothing happened.

  He went over to the easel but stopped before he got there.


  What is this madness?

  The portrait lay facedown on the floor a few feet from the easel.

  Could it have fallen there?

  But unless it had some help, it couldn’t have. It lay at the wrong angle.

  Klimt bent to retrieve the painting. It slid away from him, making a moist, squishy sound. Unable to believe what he saw, Klimt tried again. Once again the picture slid out of his reach.

  I must be dreaming. Tomorrow this will make sense.

  He left the portrait where it lay and returned to bed, praying he really was dreaming because if this was real, he realized he would never be able to trust his eyes again.

  He fell into an uneasy sleep, disturbed by images of the portrait in full face or silhouette, pursuing him, appearing in front of him, but out of reach. He dreamed it came alive and laughed at him. Mocking him.

  He woke up screaming.

  In the studio, he dragged himself to the easel. There stood the portrait. Exactly as he had originally left it. Klimt breathed a sigh of relief. His experience last night hadn’t had that dreamlike quality that separated nightmares from reality. But it must have been.

  He picked up his palette and prepared to paint, taking care to sprinkle some of the last remaining ash and mix it with the oil paint. The eye he had painted so realistically stared at him. Impossible to avoid as he worked on the diadem. His hand shook. He stopped. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  The eye blinked.

  No, it couldn’t have.

  But it did. I saw it.

  Klimt threw down his palette and backed away, nearly knocking over a small chest of drawers. He grabbed hold of it, breathing hard.

  The eye stared at him.

  He lost track of time as he stood there, gripped by a panic he had never experienced before. But then his paintings didn’t usually move. Or blink.

  He staggered out of the studio and made himself a strong coffee. His hands still trembled as he sat in his living room and sipped the scalding liquid. He would have to finish the portrait or risk incurring Quintillus’s wrath, but right now, if he never saw the thing again it would be too soon. He hadn’t slept properly for days. Every night, the noises, the endless scratching in the walls. Every morning he would awake to find the portrait in a new place—somewhere he knew he couldn’t have left it. And now this.

  How long would it take to finish? A couple of days. Just two days and he could rid himself of its evil presence. Klimt painted every day of his life; it was his consuming passion. But today, the last thing he wanted was to go back into that studio and work.

  Rain pelted the windows as he tried desperately to pull himself together. What would Emilie say if she saw him now? Would that she were here. She would make light of it. Find some explanation, however implausible. And she would soothe him, caress him.

  Klimt closed his eyes and Emilie’s soft hands stroked his face. In his mind, he saw her, smiling, lying naked in his arms; her soft, supple skin like velvet. He reached out to hold her close to him and she nestled in his arms. He drifted, sliding deeper. His desire awakened his manhood and he gave a little moan of pleasure. Emilie—so warm, so sensuous. Her velvety lips touched his, tender, then urgent, her tongue entering his mouth. She tasted of…

  Klimt’s eyes flashed open. He was alone. So how could…?

  He shook his head. He must clear his foggy brain.

  Then it became clear.

  There, on the table.

  He jumped up, staggered backward, kicking the chair over.

  Facing up at him—the portrait.

  Klimt stared at it. Everything had been so real. Emilie’s warm body in his arms. Her tender, then more urgent, kisses. All his imagination, but he had never experienced anything like that before. A waking dream? Or something far more sinister?

  That portrait. That damned portrait. He had to finish it. Get it out of here. Never see it again.

  Klimt steeled himself, grasped the picture tightly in both hands and marched into the studio. He would finish it today if it killed him. Once again he worked late into the night, forcing his hand to remain steady, putting vital finishing touches to a work he prayed he would never set eyes on again.

  Finally, exhausted, he collapsed into bed and fell asleep in seconds. He dreamed, woke briefly, and closed his eyes once more. The bed moved beside him. In his half-awake, half-asleep state, he decided Emilie must have returned early and hadn’t wanted to wake him. He longed to reach out for her, but his eyes remained stubbornly shut and he hovered on the edge of consciousness. The bed moved again and her soft breath caressed his face. Her hand slowly crept up his bare arm. Her fingers stroked his face and touched his lips. He kissed her thumb and forefinger and inched closer. He willed his eyes to open but they still would not budge, almost as if they were paralyzed. Exhausted from so much work. Even if she made a move to, he didn’t think he would be able to summon enough energy to give her what she desired, although a part of him already showed signs of awakening.

  “Emilie,” he whispered, reaching out to hold her.

  “Not Emilie.”

  His hand touched the pillow. He instantly woke, his eyes not believing what he saw and his ears what they had heard. He called out to her. “Emilie.” The house remained silent. Outside, the first birds of dawn began to sing.

  Klimt was alone. He ran his hands through his hair. He must have been asleep, dreaming of Emilie. As the first rays of the morning sun crept through the curtains, he saw it.

  The portrait.

  Leaning against a chair, facing him.

  * * * *

  Klimt paced the floor, occasionally steeling himself to glance at the picture. A mercifully uneventful week had gone by. The paint had finally dried and Quintillus would be here at eleven to collect it. The artist rubbed tired, stinging eyes. He must wrap his work. He selected a box of suitable size, a roll of string, and carefully packed it away. At least now he didn’t have to look at the cursed thing. And more importantly, it couldn’t look at him.

  He chastised himself for his cowardice, for his fancifulness. If anyone had told him…but if they did now, he would believe them.

  A knock at the door. Klimt stopped himself racing to open it, thrusting the picture into his client’s hands and slamming the door in his face. Besides, there was the balance to collect. He had no intention of going through all that only to end up shortchanged.

  Quintillus stood on the doorstep, alone. He wore his usual black jacket and stovepipe hat. Klimt found his appearance not only unnerving but also strangely compelling. He would have made an excellent subject and under other circumstances, he would have tried to persuade him to sit for a portrait. But he had already decided that if Quintillus came knocking again, he would suddenly be inundated with commissions, quite unable to take on any more.

  “It is finished?” his client asked.

  “Yes. I have packed it, all ready for you.”

  “But I must see it first.” Quintillus brushed past Klimt, into the living room.

  Reluctantly, Klimt brought the picture from his studio and removed it from its box. He stood back to let Quintillus pick it up.

  For the first time Klimt could remember, a smile came to Quintillus’s lips.

  “Magnificent. Herr Klimt, I congratulate you. You are a true genius.”

  “Thank you, Herr Doktor.”

  Never mind the fine words, where was his money?

  As if he had read his mind, Quintillus reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fistful of notes. He peeled them off one by one as Klimt mentally counted them. Correct to the last krone. He resisted the temptation to snatch the money and accepted it with a nod and a thank-you.

  “Now if you will pack it for me again, I will be on my way.”

  “Certainly, Herr Doktor.” Klimt gritted his teeth and slid the portrait back in its b
ox.

  At the door, Quintillus hesitated. “Tell me, Herr Klimt, did anything…unusual happen while you were painting this masterpiece?”

  “Unusual?”

  “Something you weren’t expecting. Noises, perhaps?”

  So he knew all along. Quintillus knew there was something wrong with this commission and he hadn’t deemed it necessary to warn him. A wave of anger rushed through Klimt’s body and the temptation to strike this man became almost overwhelming. The lie came easily after that.

  “No, Herr Doktor. I painted a portrait. It is what I do.”

  Quintillus seemed surprised. Well, let him. It was no more than he deserved for his deception.

  “And you are quite certain you followed my instructions and that you used all the ash?”

  “Of course.”

  “Most interesting. Good day to you, Herr Klimt.”

  “Good-bye, Herr Doktor.”

  He leaned against the door listening to Quintillus’s retreating footsteps. A feeling of utter weariness overcame him and he dragged himself into his bedroom where he fell on the bed and slept.

  His dreams were filled with strange images. The exotic model for the portrait. Quintillus. The portrait itself, which came alive and called to him.

  It would be many months before Klimt slept without that image haunting him. Never again would he take on such a commission—however many bills remained unpaid.

  Chapter 18

  As time went on and the portrait neared completion, the day came when Quintillus told her she was not to accompany him anymore.

  “Your work for the artist is complete, my dear.”

  “And you will let me go now?”

  “But my dear young woman, where would you go? You do not know where you come from, so how could you return?”

  “Surely you don’t intend to keep me here any longer?”

  “I think that is exactly what I must do. For your own sake.”

  “But I don’t belong here.”

  “Where else have you lived?”