“All this blue and white,” Alma said, as she took Alex up the stairs. “It makes me want to splash red paint everywhere.”
She showed Alex into her room, painted pale green, her personal retreat from Carl’s overpowering aesthetics. Tucked beneath the eaves, the space was dominated by a huge bookcase, still empty as she hadn’t yet had a chance to unpack her volumes of Nietzsche and Zola. They had only just arrived back from the mountains.
“Look,” she said, drawing Alex to the window. “You can see the Vienna Woods.”
She trembled at the thrill of being alone with her lover at last. In her room! At first, they perched on the edge of her virginal, lace-draped bed and kissed gently, then hard. Their teeth and tongues fought a fierce battle. They wrestled in silence, Alex resisting her, as if fighting both her and himself. But when she wouldn’t let him go, he responded to her embraces like one possessed, coiling himself around her like a spring, clasping her hips so that she slid between his legs, his swollen crotch against her belly. They kissed to the accompaniment of soft exclamations. She sucked on his mouth and drank his saliva. He kissed her until she was completely shattered and could scarcely come to her senses, in thrall of his touch on her most secret parts. How far would they go? One little nuance more and I shall become a god. She imagined feeling him inside her, opening her womb to him.
“I’m going crazy, Alma,” Alex kept repeating softly. “How are we going to wait until we can marry?”
They both quivered with yearning.
“You’re even sweeter than last spring,” he said, unable to stop kissing her. “Much more tender.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I never imagined I could love anyone like this, Alex.”
He buried his face in her loosened hair.
Afterward, they made their way down to the parlor, where Alma sat at the piano and played her summer harvest of compositions. She had even drafted the beginning of her very first attempt at an opera, drawn from Hugo von Hofmannsthal’s play Die Frau im Fenster.
Some of this is very fine,” Alex said, his arms around her waist while her hands danced across the keys. “Your best yet.” When she played a passage he particularly liked, he stroked her back, and whispered, “Well done.”
He played her new song, “In meines Vaters Garten,” so beautifully. Her entire body breathed for him, her every pore. She longed to be his wife, his eternal beloved. If I don’t spend my life with Alex and for Alex, I will be committing a crime against myself.
How blissfully that October passed, the happiest in Alma’s memory. Despite the long tram ride out to the Hohe Warte, Alex visited once or twice a week. When Mama and Carl were present, he was the model of distance and reserve. But in the rare stolen moments when Mama was too distracted with Maria to watch over them, they kissed and caressed until they were aching and breathless.
Alma’s heart flamed when Alex presented a copy of his newly published Lieder op. 7, officially dedicated to her, a public declaration of his love. He played and sang “Meeraugen,” while gazing at Alma who sat beside him on the piano bench.
To drown, drown myself
in the deep lap of those eyes.
“You’re my muse,” Alex told her. “Who knows what I’ll go on to write, all for you.”
That month, his sister Mathilde married Arnold Schoenberg, so Alex now had only himself and his mother to support.
“Perhaps it might be possible for us to marry sooner,” he told Alma. “If only I can make my professional breakthrough.”
He had submitted the score of his ballet, Der Triumph der Zeit, to Gustav Mahler in hope that the great conductor would stage the piece, as he had staged Alex’s opera the previous year. But much to his disappointment, he had never heard a word back from Mahler about his ballet.
If this setback wasn’t bad enough, Carl and Mama remained as opposed as ever to Alex as a suitor, dismissing his prospects at every turn. Her courtship with Alex made Alma think of trout battling their way up waterfalls, driven by a deep passion that defied all else, even the force of gravity. How much longer could she and Alex sustain this struggle?
In November a ray of hope came by way of Berta Zuckerkandl’s upcoming dinner party in honor of her sister, Sophie Clemenceau, who was visiting from Paris. Both Alma and Alex were invited, and Gustav Mahler as well.
“Here’s your chance to speak to Mahler directly in a friendly setting,” Alma told Alex. “Maybe he can still be convinced to put on your ballet.”
Alex was decidedly less optimistic. “Mahler has strong opinions and makes his own decisions. He’s not one to be easily swayed.”
As it happened, Alex declined the invitation because he was conducting that evening at the Musikverein. So Alma resolved to use her own powers of persuasion on her lover’s behalf.
“I’ve never seen you more beautiful,” Mama said wistfully, as she arranged Alma’s hair for the party that evening. “There’s a special radiance about you lately.”
Alma met her mother’s eyes in the mirror and smiled. So even Mama noticed how being in love made her shine as never before, made her skin luminous, her eyes bright and tender. Of course, it helped that she was wearing her new evening gown of lilac satin with a waist of black point d’esprit over a silvery chiffon plissé—only her finest would do for Berta Zuckerkandl’s salon.
The Zuckerkandls sent their carriage for Alma, and she traveled the short distance down the steep hill to their villa in Nusswaldgasse in Döbling.
“Thank you for coming, my dear.” Berta Zuckerkandl offered her perfumed cheek to Alma’s kiss. “You’re the only lady guest besides my sister and Mahler’s sister Justine. The Herr Direktor hates strangers, but you’re so musical, you’ll fit right in.”
Frau Zuckerkandl was as graceful as a dancer in her reform dress, a striking silk ensemble of flowing stripes and checks that was an art form in itself. Linking arms with Alma, she drew her into the main reception room, where guests lounged on velvet sofas and lacquer-work chairs. A brand-new frieze covered one wall—Alma recognized it immediately as Gustav Klimt’s work. She jumped out of her skin at the sight of Klimt himself raising his glass to her and giving her a slow-burning smile. Meanwhile, her hostess introduced her to the small gathering of slightly more than a dozen people, including Max Burckhard.
“Please welcome Alma Maria Schindler, the most beautiful girl in Vienna, daughter of the great artist Emil Schindler, and if that wasn’t impressive enough, she’s a most accomplished pianist and also a composer!”
Frau Zuckerkandl’s choice of words sounded hauntingly familiar to the ones she had spoken when introducing Alma at her salon more than two years ago except now Gustav Mahler was on hand to hear their hostess praising her to high heaven.
Mahler was cordial enough when he shook Alma’s hand, but he seemed to take no special notice of her. Alma was secretly relieved that he didn’t seem to recall their encounter two summers ago while cycling around Lake Hallstatt. How embarrassing it would have been if she had been fixed in his memory as that red-faced, perspiring girl who had begged him for an autographed postcard.
Unfortunately, Alma found herself too flustered by Klimt’s presence to speak to Mahler about Alex’s work. Likewise, she could hardly look at Max Burckhard without blushing. She cringed to remember that day in August when she and Burckhard had hiked up the Falkenstein. Mama and Carl had lagged behind, and Alma had felt lovelorn and desperate enough to let Burckhard kiss her. To let him put his tongue in her mouth! She shuddered at the memory of his walrus moustache bristling against her nostrils. How would she ever live that down? Burckhard was gallant and gentlemanly, but there was that unmistakable gleam in his eye as though he would never let her forget that kiss for as long as they both lived.
Upon discovering that the seating arrangement placed her directly between Klimt and Burckhard, Alma threw Berta Zuckerkandl a look of helpless supplication. Her hostess only smiled inscrutably before turning her attention to Mahler and his sister on the opposite end
of the table. Alma squirmed. She did her best to ignore Klimt, but her icy hauteur seemed only to inflame him all the more.
“You must complain to Frau Zuckerkandl for seating you below the salt,” Klimt said genially. “Between us two debauched old men.”
“Speak for yourself,” Burckhard grumbled.
“Alma, I hear you’re contemplating marriage,” Klimt said. “To that pauper Zemlinsky.” He sounded petulant and jealous.
“Zemlinsky is a poor choice indeed,” Burckhard said. “You can tell from his physiognomy that he’ll suffer ill health and a short life.”
Ignoring Burckhard, Klimt leaned close enough for Alma to feel the animal heat rising off his skin. “You’re not still vexed at me for Venice, are you? I’ve never forgotten how lovely you were. You know I would love nothing better than to paint you, but your mother won’t let me near you.”
“I can hardly blame her,” Burckhard said.
“I should have proposed to you two years ago instead of letting Carl chase me away,” Klimt continued, gazing at Alma as though he were absolutely besotted.
“Fortunately, I’ve learned better than to take anything you say seriously,” she replied.
“Alma,” said Burckhard. “I hope you shall play one of your lieder for us after dinner.”
“In front of Mahler?” The very thought left Alma petrified. “Surely not.”
The servants brought out the first course, a plate of raw broccoli, hardly the sumptuous fare Alma had come to expect at Berta Zuckerkandl’s dinner parties.
“Is this the new fashion in cuisine?” she whispered in horror, tentatively poking the broccoli with her fork.
Burckhard burst out laughing. “It’s because of Mahler. He’s a vegetarian and prefers raw food. He’s a teetotaler, too. Look, he’s drinking water, not wine.”
“I hear it’s on account of his hemorrhoids,” Klimt said.
“Stop it, both of you!” Alma cried. “That’s very disrespectful!”
But bathed in the warmth of their attention, she laughed along with them. The two men were fighting over her, she realized, a ripple of pleasure running up her spine. They were even trying to take the great Gustav Mahler down a peg or two just to impress her. Alma noticed Mahler glancing at their trio, first surreptitiously, then openly. Her and her companions’ conversation was by far the most animated at the table even if it wasn’t the most refined.
“You should see our new villa, everything blue and white, even the toilet seat,” Alma gasped, tears of hilarity streaming down her face. “Designed and handcrafted by Kolo Moser! Our toilet is a Gesamtkunstwerk!”
All three of them collapsed into helpless laughter.
From the other end of the table came Mahler’s voice. “My dear Fräulein Schindler, might the rest of us be allowed to hear your amusing tales?”
After dinner, the guests gathered in the drawing room, where the discussion turned to the theme of the relativity of beauty. Mahler held the floor. Though only five foot three, he seemed larger than life. A frenetic, restless energy crackled through him. His thick blue-black hair and his finely sculpted beardless face made him seem younger than his forty-one years.
“Beauty!” Mahler cried. “The head of Socrates is beautiful.”
“In my mind, Alexander von Zemlinsky is beautiful,” Alma said, seizing her chance.
Mahler seemed nonplussed. “That’s going a bit too far, Fräulein.”
“Zemlinsky’s famously ugly,” Burckhard pointed out.
“But his music is exquisite,” Alma said, not missing a beat.
“Zemlinsky shows promise, to be sure,” Mahler said. “But he’s quite restricted as a composer, don’t you think?”
Alma flared up to hear her lover so cavalierly dismissed. “Now that we’re speaking of Herr Zemlinsky, why don’t you stage his ballet, Der Triumph der Zeit? You’ve kept him waiting a year for an answer.”
“Because the ballet is worthless! It’s unperformable. As a musician, how can you defend such rubbish?” Mahler gazed at her searchingly through his spectacles.
“Rubbish?” She was incredulous. “Have you even looked at it properly, Herr Direktor?” Now that she had Mahler’s attention, she wasn’t going to back down easily. “Perhaps you don’t understand it. I’ll tell you the whole narrative and explain what it means,” Alma said confidently, as Alex had instructed her on the ballet’s somewhat baffling symbolism.
Mahler smiled suavely. “I’m all eagerness.”
“But first you’ll have to explain to me, Herr Direktor, the full meaning of Die Braut von Korea,” she said scathingly, referring to the production currently being performed at the Court Opera. “So full of kitsch and romantic clichés—it’s the most inane ballet I’ve ever seen.”
Instead of taking offense, Mahler laughed, revealing fine white teeth. “Our hostess says you’re a composer.”
“I study counterpoint with Herr Zemlinsky,” Alma said, less sure of herself now. She flushed at how deftly Mahler had turned the conversation away from Alex straight onto her. “He’s my greatest inspiration. I think he’s the finest young composer in Vienna.”
“It’s very good of you, Fräulein Schindler, to speak of your teacher with such respect,” Mahler said pacifically. “Your loyalty speaks volumes. I’ll send for Herr Zemlinsky no later than tomorrow.”
A trill of victory sounded inside Alma’s heart. She found herself beaming. Wait till I tell Alex!
“And you, Fräulein, must bring some of your scores to the opera for me to look at.” Mahler smiled at her intently.
Alma realized that the others had drifted away, leaving her and Mahler on their own. It was as though a magic circle enclosed the two of them. In that crowded room, she heard no voice but his. Stunned by his invitation, by his adroit replies to her clumsy petitions, she told him that she would come when she had something good to show him.
“Please don’t make me wait too long,” he said. “I entreat you to come to the dress rehearsal of Les contes d’Hoffmann tomorrow morning. Frau Zuckerkandl and Frau Clemenceau are coming. Please bring your mother as well,” he added, as though to convey that his intentions were entirely above reproach. “I would love to meet her.”
Alma hesitated. Did she dare surrender her scores, as imperfect as they were, to so distinguished and powerful a man as Mahler? The thought left her both exhilarated and terrified. She found herself mesmerized by this slender man whose genius was a palpable presence, leaving her weak in the knees. His intensity! This man is made entirely of oxygen. If I stand too close, I might get burned.
“Yes, I accept,” she heard herself say. She told herself that Alex would want her to, that he would be overjoyed for her.
“Where do you live?”
“The Hohe Warte.”
“That’s not far,” Mahler said. “I’ll walk you home.”
She wondered what her mother would make of her walking up the dark streets on the arm of the great opera director. For a moment, her head filled with spinning points of light. “No, thank you, Herr Direktor. I’ll go in Frau Zuckerkandl’s carriage.”
“Well, at least you’ll be at the opera tomorrow morning,” he said, his eyes compelling and direct. “For certain?”
“Yes, indeed, Herr Direktor.”
“I do hope you enjoyed yourself,” Berta Zuckerkandl said, when she kissed Alma farewell before showing her into the carriage. “Tonight you’ve met your past, your present, and your future.” She spoke enigmatically as though she were the Norn spinning Alma’s fate.
On the ride home, Alma was racked with misgiving. Had she really made toilet jokes at Berta Zuckerkandl’s table? She felt like burying her head in shame. What was worse was that she had gone for Alex’s sake, to fight his cause, only to flirt with Burckhard and Klimt. And then she had unwittingly thrown herself headlong into the blinding spotlight of Mahler’s attention. She closed her eyes and tried to summon her lover’s face, but she saw Mahler, only Mahler. He was a monolith. He wants to see
my lieder! Berta Zuckerkandl’s mysterious words played inside her head. Your past. Your present.
“And my future,” Alma whispered, her head pounding in confusion.
Alma arrived home to find Mama waiting up for her with a pot of linden-flower tisane. She dutifully informed her mother of Mahler’s invitation to the dress rehearsal of Les contes d’Hoffmann.
“You’re invited, too,” she said, even though she knew her mother had an engagement.
She almost hoped her mother would find some reason to forbid her from going just to take the weight of Mahler’s summons off her shoulders. But Mama was beside herself.
“Such an honor, my dear! You can’t possibly refuse.”
15
Alma met Frau Zuckerkandl and Madame Clemenceau before the locked doors of the Court Opera. A frosty November day, the chill from the cobblestones seeped up through the thin soles of Alma’s good shoes, but before she could even comment on the cold, Mahler appeared.
“Fräulein Schindler, how good to see you,” he said, as he unlocked the doors to usher them inside. “Did I not keep my word? A man is only as good as his word.”
Once the four of them were inside, Mahler bolted the doors behind them again. This is almost like a secret initiation, Alma thought. She had never seen the vast marble foyer so empty, as though this entire edifice existed for her and her companions alone.
“Make I take your coat, Fräulein Schindler?” Mahler asked, before proceeding to help her out of her black woolen mantle.
But he didn’t extend the same courtesy to Frau Zuckerkandl and Madame Clemenceau, who merely shared a smile as though amused by this discrepancy. Mahler, meanwhile, led the way up a hidden staircase. He and the two older women chattered blithely, their words rendered meaningless by the roaring inside Alma’s head. Gustav Mahler is carrying my coat!
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