Mortal Mischief

Excited, Clara and Hannah had rushed ahead.

'Wait a minute,' said Liebermann, opening the catalogue and flicking through the pages.

'Why?' asked Clara.

'I want to look at the orientation map.'

'Orientation map? Surely you don't think we're going to get lost, Max.'

Hannah giggled.

'No,' Liebermann replied, 'I don't think we're going to get lost, Clara, but I do want to know what I'm looking at.'

'The Klinger, surely,' said Clara. 'And the Klimt.'

'Indeed, but there are many more artists represented here.' He pointed to some names on the floor plan. 'See: Andri, Auchentaller, Moser – I don't know where to start. Let me see . . .' He read for a few moments and added: 'They suggest the left aisle.'

Clara looked at Hannah and, assuming a mischievous expression, repeated, 'Left aisle.'

The two of them scurried off and Liebermann was forced to stop reading in order to keep up.

They entered a long room where several other people were already standing, looking upwards. Liebermann followed their gaze and felt his heart flutter with excitement. The upper sections of three of the four walls were decorated with an extraordinary fresco. Liebermann spoke softly to his companions: 'The Beethoven Frieze.'

Clara and Hannah glanced up, but had already been distracted by the centrepiece of the exhibition, Klinger's Beethoven sculpture, which could be seen through a large rectangular aperture in the wall. They both began to wander towards the brightly lit space.

'Hannah, Clara,' Liebermann hissed. 'The Klimt!'

Both turned, looking puzzled, frozen in a comical attitude with raised arms and limp, pointing fingers.

In response to their quizzical expressions Liebermann jerked his head up – their eyes followed the movement.

'Oh . . .' said Clara, suddenly seeing the fresco truly for the first time.

Liebermann consulted his catalogue and beckoned, urging his sister and fiancee to come closer.

'The panels form a narrative,' he said, summarising the guide, 'based on Wagner's interpretation of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. The first is called 'Yearning for Happiness', the second 'Hostile Powers', and the third 'Longing for Happiness Fulfilled by Poetry'. Together they are supposed to represent the triumph of art over adversity.'

The room was eerily quiet – like a crypt. The other occupants of the room were transfixed, staring up at Klimt's magical panorama as if it held a secret that would only be revealed to the most diligent observer.

Liebermann let his gaze roam from panel to panel and felt slightly giddy. The colours were so bold: the red of ox blood, then aquamarine, silver, rust, topaz, and, of course, acres of gold. It seemed to Liebermann that Klimt must use a palette of gemstones, iron ore, and precious metals.

As Liebermann's eyes became accustomed to Klimt's overwhelming carousel of colours, he was able to appreciate a cast of characters who gradually emerged as distinct individuals. Emaciated, naked figures appealed to a knight in armour; a monstrous winged ape squatted amid a crowd of disturbing death's heads and sirens: and a man and a woman – their bodies pressed together – kissed below a choir of angelic faces. Some parts of the fresco seemed cool and still, while others writhed with activity, every inch alive with movement: ripples, waves, swirls and eddies – vibrant detail, enlivened by the shimmer of applique mirrors.

A busty middle-aged woman had entered the room, accompanied by a younger man who seemed vaguely familiar to Liebermann. He thought, perhaps, that he might have seen him around Alsergrund and suspected that he too was a doctor, but could not be sure. The woman raised her lorgnette and peered at the frieze. Within moments she was tutting and grumbled something to her companion, raising her voice as she enunciated words such as 'obscenity' and 'sinful'.

The young man nodded his head and endorsed her condemnation: 'Images of madness . . . fixed ideas . . .' As he came closer Liebermann heard him more clearly: '. . . a shameless caricature of the noble human form. Only a certain type of intellectual would derive pleasure from contemplating such pathological scenes.'

Yes, thought Liebermann. A doctor – and most probably an anti- Semite.

He looked protectively at Clara and Hannah, and was satisfied that neither of them had understood the subtle slur.

The couple walked past, and as they did so the dowager aunt could not resist one more spiteful salvo: '. . . he has exceeded the boundaries of good taste – certainly not an exhibition that any self-respecting young lady would care to attend.'

Hannah suddenly looked worried, this time having caught the comment. Liebermann placed an arm around her shoulder.

'I think that was for my benefit Hannah – not yours.' His sister smiled nervously. 'I promise you, there's nothing wrong in coming to see great art. And this is great art – believe me.'

'Did you see the look she gave us?' said Clara indignantly. But then, returning her attention to the fresco, she added an equivocal: 'However . . .'

'However what?' asked Liebermann.

'She does have a point – of sorts . . .' Clara gestured at the centre wall and lifted her eyebrows. 'I mean to say, it's rather . . .' She paused, unable to find an appropriate word.

'Daring,' said Hannah.

'Yes,' said Clara. 'Daring.'

Klimt's nudes were sensuous and carnal. In the middle panel, a sublimely attractive woman sat with her cheek resting on her knee – a shock of luxurious hair falling between her open thighs. Her expression smouldered with wicked sexuality and her teeth were visible between parted lips.

'And what on Earth is that supposed to be?' continued Clara. 'That monster . . . thing.'

Liebermann consulted his catalogue again.

'The Giant Typhonoeus. Whom the gods themselves could not destroy. He is accompanied by the figures of Sickness, Madness and Death.'

Clara looked towards Hannah. Something passed between them – a conspiratorial glance that brought them close to laughter.

The room had emptied and, taking advantage of the vacant floor, Liebermann stood for a while in several different positions, appreciating the work from a variety of perspectives. His eyes, however, were repeatedly drawn by the seated temptress. There was something about her face that reminded him of Katherine – the English governess's alter ego.

An image came to him, breaking the surface tension of his own consciousness.

Katherine – at the hospital – smoothing her gown. The tautness of the material as it clung to her hips and belly.

Ashamed, Liebermann looked away.

Clara was whispering something in Hannah's ear. His sister smiled and placed a hand over her mouth – as though astonished. He felt an odd mixture of emotions: warmth and, surprisingly, disappointment. Clara was a woman – eight years older than Hannah. Yet she found it so easy to share girlish jokes with his sixteen-year-old sister. Of course, Clara's playfulness was part of her charm; but in this setting, in this great temple of art, her playfulness appeared less like high spirits and more like immaturity. Liebermann was discomfited by his own lack of charity and, reprimanding himself for being mean-spirited, walked back to join them.

'What's so funny now?'

'Nothing that would interest you,' said Clara archly. Liebermann shrugged. 'Shall we go through?' she added – and, taking Hannah's hand, she walked to the end of the room where some stairs led to the central aisle. Before leaving the Beethoven Frieze, Liebermann ran his fingers down the roughcast wall and pondered the significance of a marble head.

'Hurry up, Max, I want to see the Klinger,' said Clara. She made wide circles with her cupped hand, as though trying to create a draught that would move him forward. Hannah, impressed by Clara's impatience, joined in.

'Yes, Max. Hurry up.'