Death And The Maiden

59

Liebermann walked through the streets of Alsergrund, his hands plunged deep in the pockets of his astrakhan coat. He could feel the gift he had bought Amelia Lydgate, wrapped in crepe paper and tied up with a silver bow. Initially he had considered buying her flowers, but such an offering had seemed too ephemeral. He had then considered buying her a piece of jewellery, but on reflection that hadn’t seemed appropriate either. It wasn’t that she did not like jewellery (she often wore earrings and brooches when they attended concerts together), but rather it was that jewellery did not demonstrate an appreciation of her essential character. She was attracted to meteorites more than to precious stones. He had observed her behaviour in the Natural History Museum. A lump of iron that had travelled between worlds held much more fascination for her than the largest diamond.

After much deliberation, he had decided to buy her a book, Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint by Brentano, a rather abstruse work of philosophy concerning the discrimination of mental and physical phenomena. Liebermann closed his fingers around the volume’s spine and laughed. To an onlooker, such a gift would seem entirely misjudged: dry, technical and, worst of all, unromantic. But it was a gift that he knew Amelia would like.

She was such a remarkable woman. So unlike any other woman he had ever encountered. He adored her. Every feature of her person: the line that appeared on her forehead when she was deep in thought, the sound of her voice and the shape of her hands. Just thinking about her made him feel ridiculously happy.

He crossed the road and passed through a knot of people who had gathered around a pedlar. They were making a lot of noise, haggling over prices. A Ruthenian, wearing a sheepskin jacket and high boots, was standing close by, considering whether or not to investigate.

Liebermann turned off the main road into a quieter side street. He had been reluctant to admit it to himself, but his joy was definitely laced with feelings of nervousness. Two weeks had passed since they had attended the performance of Cosi fan Tutte at the opera house; two weeks, during which they had maintained a tender correspondence. Until only a few days earlier it had been impossible to arrange another rendezvous because of their respective commitments and their newfound intimacy had presented Liebermann with a fresh logistical problem. Where should they meet? A cafe was too public, a private dining room too louche, and it still felt improper for Liebermann to invite Amelia to his apartment. The obvious solution was for them to meet, as they had always done, in Amelia’s rooms. For as long as Liebermann had been visiting Amelia, Frau Rubenstein’s presence downstairs had provided a comforting illusion of propriety, performing, as she did, the functions of a discreet duenna. Now that Frau Rubenstein was abroad, visiting relatives in Berlin, even this disposal had become more complicated.

The situation had been resolved when Amelia issued an invitation for Liebermann to visit her at home, that evening, making no mention of Frau Rubenstein’s absence. Her note had provided him with a welcome exemption from responsibility.

As Liebermann drew closer to his destination, he found himself thinking of Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze. He had gone to see this extraordinary wall painting the previous year (with Clara — then his fiancee — and Hannah, his younger sister). Among the many complex allegories and symbols, the artist had painted a kissing couple. They were both naked and locked in a passionate embrace. This image, which Liebermann’s mind reproduced with eidetic clarity, revived a host of tactile memories: the softness of Amelia’s lips, the curve of her hip and the narrowness of her waist. He yearned to kiss her again.

When Liebermann arrived outside Frau Rubenstein’s house, he stopped to compose himself. Eagerness had accelerated his step, and he was now a little out of breath. The door looked strangely different, all the details in high relief, as though illuminated by brilliant sunlight.

Liebermann knocked and waited.

Her face, when it appeared, was smiling. She ushered him into the hallway and they stood for a moment, staring awkwardly at each other. Amelia was wearing her reform dress. It hung loosely around her slender body like a kaftan, falling from her shoulders to the floor. The red of the fabric was patterned with circles of gold that glittered when she moved. She had unpinned her hair, creating a cascade of complementary russet and copper waves.

Liebermann extended his hand. She took it — and he pulled her gently towards him. As she moved closer, her head tilted backwards to receive his kiss.

In the Beethoven Frieze the surrendering female figure is barely visible behind the muscular solidity of her paramour. Only her arms appear around his neck, but the rest of her body is economically suggested by a pale, featureless border. The couple are situated in an arch of blazing light, behind which stand ranks of serene yet alluring angels. Around the host, the flowers in the gardens of paradise are blooming …

Once again, this remembered image flared up in Liebermann’s mind, and it was as though he and Amelia had been magically transported into Klimt’s rapturous vision. They had unwittingly assumed the positions of the man and woman and were no longer individuals but universal principles, male and female, as fundamental as night and day, destined, inescapably, to come together. Amelia’s frame felt fragile beneath the soft fabric, and Liebermann’s arms, as they closed around her, promised strength and protection. He was acutely aware that she was not wearing a corset. There was no artificial barrier between them, no whalebone cage imprisoning her flesh. The sense of her nakedness intensified his desire and his hands swept down her back, mapping each exquisite curve, conveying every minute discovery through thrilled nerves to his excited brain.

When they finally drew apart they were both stunned by the ease with which they had resumed their intimacy. It was as though the intervening two weeks had been a momentary interruption of a single continuous kiss. Liebermann realised, with some embarrassment, that they had still not spoken to each other.

‘I’ve got you a present,’ he said, producing the crepe paper parcel.

Amelia took it, smiled, and replied, ‘Thank you. I’ll open it upstairs. Would you like some tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

Their exchange sounded peculiarly stilted in the wake of what had just transpired. On their way up to Amelia’s rooms, Liebermann was confident that very little of the evening would be spent discussing the strengths and weaknesses of Brentano’s system of philosophy. And he was right.