Nineteen years old, Alma Maria Schindler longed body and soul for an awakening. In the family parlor, redolent with the perfume of hothouse lilies, she sat at her piano and composed a new song.
“Ich wandle unter Blumen und blühe selber mit,” she sang, as she played. I wandered among flowers and blossomed with them.
The lyrics were from a poem by Heinrich Heine, but the music was entirely her own. Closing her eyes, Alma let the song play itself, as though it were a living creature she had birthed and let loose in the world. Whether her music was any good or not, she had no idea, but it shimmered with passion poured straight from her heart. Painters, like her late father, the great Emil Schindler, revealed the innermost workings of their souls with brushstrokes, bold or delicate. The piano was her canvas, her notes the play of light and dark, color and texture.
“My art,” Alma whispered, and then jumped to see her sister, Gretl, one year younger, watching from the open doorway.
Still in her dressing gown although it was two in the afternoon, Gretl seemed to be nursing another headache. But instead of scolding Alma for making such a racket, she sat in the armchair beside the piano and asked her to play the song once more.
“It’s uncanny,” Gretl said, when Alma had finished. She gazed down at the book of lyric verse opened to the Heine piece Alma had chosen. “You always find a poem that expresses what’s inside you. Anyone who hears this song will know you as well as I. It’s that intimate.”
Her sister’s face was as pale as the lilies in their vase, and her dark eyes were fixed on Alma with a solemn scrutiny that unnerved her.
Alma searched for a lighthearted reply. “That explains why my lieder are so introspective! No jolly, thigh-slapping folk songs for me then.”
To her relief, Gretl’s mood seemed to lift and they laughed together.
“Just imagine,” Gretl said, thumbing through the red-leather-bound Baedeker travel guide on the side table. “Another seven weeks and we’re off to Italy! I can hardly wait to leave this dreary snow behind.” At that, she went off to dress.
Alma played her song again, adding subtle variations to the theme. Joy seized her, a buoyancy that blossomed inside her. Losing herself in the labyrinth of sound, she allowed her yearnings to soar. If only I were a somebody. Oh, to compose an opera, a truly great one—something no woman had ever done. She would call her opera Ver Sacrum, sacred spring, after the journal of the Secession art movement. Her stepfather, Carl Moll, was the Secession’s vice president. His paintings lined the parlor walls along with those of his colleagues and friends. Gustav Klimt. Max Klinger. Fernand Khnopff. Koloman Moser’s exquisitely framed letterpress print spelled out the Secession’s motto.
To every age its art.
To every art its freedom.
Freedom, Alma exulted. Her stepfather’s circle was the vanguard, the cutting edge. They had defied the rigid conventions of the academy to create their own unique styles. After this break from tradition, the arts could never be the same again. As hidebound and conservative as Austria might be, with its emperor who seemed to live forever through every scandal and revolution, Vienna was a bubbling font of artistic innovation. Ver sacrum, indeed! Not only were there avant-garde painters and architects, reform dress that liberated women’s bodies from crippling corsets, and new writers such as Hugo von Hofmannsthal, but there were also young composers. With her entire being, Alma longed to leave her mark among these blazing new talents. Oh, to compose symphonies and operas that truly expressed the spirit of this modern age! How she longed for the vision and strength to see her dreams reach fruition.
Help me, divine power, she prayed, she who had disavowed all formal religion. Guide me. See me through. May I suffer no hindrance in the battle against my weakness. My femininity.