Vienna, Austria. March 15, 1913. It’s pouring with rain. When Lou walks into the Café Ronacher, she’s carrying an umbrella. She finds the young man at a larger table than before, sketchbook and pencil set in front of him. The moment she enters he rises swiftly to greet her. This time there’s no obsequious fawning. Today he seems a different person, bursting with confidence. She thinks: If I weren’t aware of his insecurities, I’d likely find him repulsive.
He snaps his finger at the waiter, orders coffees and chocolate tortes for them both.
‘You don’t bother to ask what I want?’
‘I assumed, based on our last meeting …’ He lowers his eyes. ‘I apologize.’
‘Never mind. In your letter you spoke of a willingness to reveal yourself. You used the words “full disclosure”.’ He nods. ‘I’m listening?’
‘I am prepared to answer all your questions. In return I ask permission to sketch you while we chat.’
‘I thought you didn’t like drawing people. There were no people in your paintings.’
‘Occasionally I’m moved to draw a portrait of someone I admire.’ He looks cannily at her. ‘May I?’
She nods. As they talk he sketches her, looking up at her from time to time, then back down at his sketchbook. He holds it in so only he can see the drawing as it progresses.
‘You seem quite confident today,’ she tells him.
‘People often say that about me, even when they disagree with what I’m saying. I certainly have my opinions, but I pride myself on being open to a change of mind when someone I respect, such as yourself, offers me a good reason.’
‘May I ask you some personal questions?’
‘Certainly!’ He is, she sees, eager to accommodate her.
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’
‘I’ve yet to fall in love, but I do look forward to the experience.’
‘Do you think of yourself as bitter or angry?’
‘I am well acquainted with those feelings. My application to attend the Academy of Fine Arts was twice rejected. Needless to say that was discouraging.’
‘I can imagine.’
He shakes his head as if to say she has no idea. ‘There is no work for me here.’ He continues to sketch her as he speaks. ‘Two years ago I was reduced to carrying suitcases at the station in exchange for tips. I’m currently living in a shelter in the Brigittenau district along with several hundred other unemployed men. So, you see, my daily existence isn’t pleasant.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘In fact, if it weren’t for the meager amounts I’m able to scrounge for my paintings and the paltry allowance I receive from my family, I’d be hungry and destitute. Under such circumstances, Frau Lou, it is difficult not to feel some bitterness.’
Lou nods kindly to show she understands. Up until now she’s regarded him as an object of curiosity; now for the first time in their acquaintanceship she feels some empathy.
‘Do you frequent prostitutes?’
The young man is taken aback. He looks up from his drawing. ‘This is something I would never discuss with a lady!’
‘Perhaps sexuality, which is a normal part of human existence, frightens you?’
‘Is that what your esteemed Professor Freud would say?’
‘Do you know anything about his work?’
‘You mocked me before for my ignorance. So to educate myself and also to please you, I conducted some research.’ He grins. ‘Let me put it this way – I feel the same way about this so-called science you are studying as I do about the so-called art work of Mr Egon Schiele.’
‘Contempt?’
‘I couldn’t put it better.’
‘Tell me about yourself. How do you spend your time?’
‘I’ll be happy to. But first may I ask why you’re so curious about me, a man of small consequence compared to the many famous people in your exalted circle?’
She ignores his sarcasm. ‘Like many writers I like to see the world through others’ eyes. When a young man follows me on the street and then writes me admiring letters, of course I’m curious to know who he is.’
He resumes sketching as he describes his life. ‘Most mornings I work on my painting. I go into an old part of the city, sketch scenes, then return to the Mannerheim shelter, where I have a little corner where I can work. Here I refine my sketches and color them in. The other men there leave me alone. I think I frighten them a bit … which is fine. I don’t like being disturbed.’ He pauses. ‘I also spend a good deal of time reading, philosophy mostly. The writing of your old friend Friedrich Nietzsche in particular. It doesn’t bother me that in person he may have been coarse and disagreeable. It’s his ideas I care about. There are many levels in his writing, and even when I believe I grasp what he’s saying, I’ll reread the passage and understand it in an entirely new way.’
He glances at her to be certain she’s listening closely.
‘In the evening, I like to walk, explore the city, discover its dark corners. In daylight, scouting scenes for my sketches, I’m struck by architecture and angles of viewing that will result in strong compositions. But at night I search for something else. I’m not sure I can explain it.’
‘Please try.’
‘I find the city morbid and gloomy at night. I’m attracted to that.’
‘Some call Vienna at night a “dream city”,’ Lou tells him. ‘My friend Arthur Schnitzler and other writers see it that way.’
‘For me it has been more like a nightmare.’ The young man grins. ‘At night I follow streets guided only by instinct. “Should I turn here … or continue on?” I’ll ask myself. And then I’ll take the turn or not depending on my mood. Because in the end it doesn’t matter which street I take or where I end up so long as it’s someplace new and interesting. I like to find my way into unfamiliar neighborhoods. Then I’ll gaze at the people on the streets or sitting in cafés and restaurants. I’ll peer up into lit windows where I might see a young woman moving about from room to room, a family at dinner, perhaps an elderly man sitting alone smoking a pipe, or a young couple having an argument. Sometimes, when I hear someone practicing a musical instrument, I’ll stand still below on the street and strain to listen.’
He pauses, meets her eyes. ‘I love music, so sometimes I attend the Imperial Opera, but only when Wagner is being performed. Then I’ll purchase a space in the standing-room area beneath the royal box and revel in the music. After the opera is finished, while others, regular box-holders and elegant men and women such as yourself, step into automobiles or carriages and go off to luxurious restaurants, I’ll stand in the shadows watching, observing, making up stories about those people, who they are, what they’re like, how they talk and think.
‘After the audience has dispersed I often linger at the stage door with other opera-lovers waiting for the singers to come out. When the great ones finally emerge (and I’m speaking now of such as Anna von Mildenburg), I never push myself toward them as others do, the ones who hold out their programs begging for autographs. I simply watch them, study them, noting how different they seem from the way they appeared on stage – not so big and powerful, but still rich and sleek, reveling in the triumph of their performances. Sometimes, if a performance has particularly excited me, I might join in the applause outside the stage door. Sometimes one of them, perhaps the orchestra conductor or a great soprano such as Lucy Weidt, will catch my eye, there will be a moment of contact between us, then she will turn and look away. It’s always the other person who breaks eye contact first, never me.’ He stares hard at Lou. She has the impression he’s now sketching her eyes. ‘And though the singer will likely forget my face, I will never forget the look in her eyes, the regard, however momentary, that has passed between us, her understanding that I truly grasp the extent of her talent, and her appreciation for that. And sometimes, strangely, I will also see a glimmer of recognition just before her eyes disengage from mine, as if she sees something in me as well, perhaps something momentous … or simply disturbing.’
The young man grins. ‘I confess I rather like that feeling. It’s as if there has been an exchange of energy between us, something electric.’
Lou peers at him. ‘I must tell you – you’re an excellent talker.’
‘And you, Frau Lou, are an excellent listener.’ He takes a long deep breath. ‘Earlier you asked me about prostitutes. I refuse to discuss what I may or may not do in that regard, but sometimes late at night, after the opera, I will walk over to Spittelberggasse and look at them perched in their windows trying to lure in customers.’
‘Do such women appeal to you?’
He vigorously shakes his head. ‘They revolt me! And yet I am as curious about human scum as I am about members of all the classes.’ He pauses, looks up at her. ‘May I speak to you about Schiele now?’
She nods.
‘I’ll say this for him, his work gave me nightmares.’ Lou notices the way his eyes burn as he speaks. ‘All those emaciated self-portraits, those strangely twisted malnourished naked bodies – I couldn’t push them out of my mind. I felt he was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t grasp what it was. Perhaps some vision of the future, what he thinks the world may someday become. And those naked women, legs spread – I have to admit that standing before them I felt embarrassed. The postures, so strange, other-worldly. The eyes, burning, staring out at me. And those cadaverous men, like meat hanging on hooks in a slaughterhouse. It’s a frightening vision. Nothing ennobling in it. As I said, a nightmare.’ He peers at her. ‘You’re smiling.’
‘I am, because what you’ve described is exactly what I believe Schiele intended. That his work gave you nightmares speaks to the power of his art. He is showing you his world, the world of his dreams. He looks deeply inside himself and fearlessly paints what he finds there.’
‘It’s a dark vision.’
‘I believe there is darkness within us all. When we deny the darkness it eats away at us, but when we own up to it, expose it as Schiele does, we feel relieved. The fact that you found his paintings nearly unbearable to look at tells me he has reached you.’ She catches his eye. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’ll soon turn twenty-four.’
‘I believe Schiele’s the same age.’
He scoffs, then resumes sketching her. ‘I could never make art that looks like that!’
‘I understand you paint scenes to sell to tourists, but I hope that at some point you may decide to really test yourself as an artist, explore your own soul including the dark crevices you deny are there.’
‘I must think about that.’
‘You should. And if you can’t find a way to express your deep feelings in a pictorial way, then perhaps there’s some other mode of expression in which you can.’
‘Such as?’
‘I can’t answer that. You must discover it on your own. All you need is a strong idea.’
Taking this in, he sketches in silence for a while, then finally raises his head.
‘There is something I must tell you. I promised not to follow you. That was the condition you set for further meetings and I agreed to it. I don’t mind telling you how difficult that was.’
‘Was it a compulsion?’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘Did you feel you had to follow me?’
‘Perhaps. Yes, I believe I did, as you say, feel compelled.’
‘Can you explain why?’ She’s very attentive to him now, eager to understand why he’s attracted to her and by so doing to better understand the concept of transference Freud emphasizes when discussing analytic technique. ‘Do I remind you of someone in your life, perhaps someone in your family?’
He shakes his head. ‘I suppose I could say it was your connection to Nietzsche that attracted me. But I think it was really that photograph that haunted me, the one you don’t like to talk about.’
Hearing this she feels disconcerted, but tries not to show it.
The young man resumes sketching. ‘In the picture you harness Nietzsche and the other man together, make them pull your cart like animals.’
‘The picture was a joke. It was totally Nietzsche’s idea. He conceived it, found some props lying around the studio, put them together then staged the scene. Then he stepped into the frame, and, flash! The photographer took the shot.’
‘But why?’
‘I have written about this. It was a special occasion. We were celebrating what we thought would be our life together, the three of us studying, writing, energizing one another’s minds. We had made a compact to live like this, in this “scandalous” manner, and Fritz wanted to celebrate the moment. So he dragged us up to that studio to be photographed.’
‘That strikes me as bizarre.’
Lou smiles. ‘Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s called it that. I’m asked about that image all the time: “What were we thinking?” “What does it mean?” “What does it say about the relationships between the three of you?” Fritz’s sister despises me for many reasons, not the least for that photograph, which she thinks I set up and then showed around so people would think I had her brother in my power. That’s so stupid! At the time I was all of twenty-one years old. I may have held a few illusions back then, but nothing so grandiose! The truth is that when I showed it to people it was just to make them smile. “Look at this silly picture,” I’d tell them. Then they’d laugh and we’d go on to talk of something else. But later those same people who pretended to be amused would gossip about it and draw nasty conclusions. So please, if you don’t mind, explain to me why that silly little picture would have such a powerful effect upon you that it would drive you to follow me around Vienna, if I understand correctly, almost against your will?’
The young man strokes his chin. ‘You say the picture was meant as a joke, but for me it possesses a haunting power.’ Throughout this exchange he has peered past Lou, but now he meets her eyes. ‘I’ve heard it said that the break-up of your relationship with Nietzsche was the inspiration for Thus Spake Zarathustra. Is that true?’
‘I have no idea. But if in some small way I inspired Nietzsche to create his masterpiece, then of course I would feel greatly honored.’
He looks down at his sketch, then lays his sketchbook face-down on the table.
‘I want to make a full confession. I kept my word about not following you. But you never told me not to follow people you associate with.’
‘Did you?’ she asks, appalled.
He nods. ‘Some nights by chance I find my way to the Alsergrund, the district where you’re staying and where I gather you spend much of your time. One night, quite late, I happened to be passing Professor Freud’s house on Berggasse. I’ve passed by there many times. That night I happened to see the two of you emerge together. It must have been after one a.m. To assure your safety, I decided to follow you. Actually not you since you had ordered me not to, but the professor who at the time just happened to be with you. I followed him as he escorted you back to your hotel, and then continued to follow him as he walked back alone to his residence.’
‘So you did follow me?’ She feels herself becoming angry.
‘No! I kept my promise. I was following the professor!’
‘You’re splitting hairs. I find that devious. Who else have you followed whom you associate with me?’
He looks down. ‘Just one other person, the man I’ve seen you dining with at the Alte Elster. I can see you’re angry hearing this, so let me assure you I noticed you there with him before you instructed me to stop following you, and that after that, if I saw you two together, it was completely by chance.’ He looks into her eyes. ‘I believe his name is Dr Tausk.’
Lou raises her hand. ‘Stop! I mean it! That is really unsupportable!’
‘I’m sorry you see it that way. But I did keep my promise.’
‘You deliberately narrowed the meaning of your promise to suit your convenience. I find that slippery, very slippery.’ She rises to leave.
‘Please! You’re not going? I must finish my sketch.’
‘You’ll have to finish it without me now.’
‘Please don’t leave like this, Frau Lou. There’re so many things I want to say.’
‘You had your chance. I hope our meetings have been helpful to you. This will be the last one. I wish you luck in life. Goodbye.’
And at that she summons the waiter, hands him money, unfurls her umbrella, and walks out into the rain without looking back.