Vienna Blood

48

OLBRICHT STARED ACROSS THE paint-spattered floorboards and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He relaxed his legs and turned his wrists inward, assuming an attitude reminiscent of that of Michelangelo's David. Then he raised his right hand and imagined his fingers closing around a laurel wreath. He felt a curious thrill, as though his fanciful conceit had been translated into authentic communion with the weltseele-the world soul. He closed his eyes, hoping to prolong the moment, but the strange feeling dissipated, leaving him with only a dull headache.

The artist turned and surveyed the paintings he had prepared for his coming exhibition.

Alberich and the three Rhine maidens; a blind skald in a timbered hall; Siegfried, slaying the dragon…

He circled the studio, admiring his accomplishments, but stopped in front of the canvas of Pipara-the heroine of List's eponymous novel. Square shoulders; yellow braided hair; a strong, almost masculine face. She was standing on a raised stone balcony, looking out over a sea of heavily armored Roman legionaries.

Olbricht took a step closer.

He could remember feeling extremely pleased with his Pipara when the painting was completed; however, having put it aside for a while, he was now somewhat dissatisfied with her appearance. Olbricht picked up his palette and a fine-haired brush, and began reworking the empress's features.

There was something about the bridge of her nose that was not quite right. The height of her cheekbones, too low-the shape of her chin, too broad. Olbricht's movements became more fluid. Something of his communion with the world soul had stayed with him. He felt inspired, guided by a spirit hand toward the realization of an elusive ideal.

Finally, he took a step back.

The empress now bore an uncanny resemblance to Frau Anna, the wife of Guido List. She was so very beautiful, Frau Anna. Such a perfect example of Aryan womanhood.

If only he had seen her in the Wala…

If only he had been there-on that celebrated occasion, sponsored by the German League.

If only…

Something inside him crumpled, like an eggshell trodden underfoot.

Olbricht reached out and traced the curve of the empress's bosom with a trembling finger.

List was not an attractive man, and he was considerably older than the beautiful Anna. Yet she had married him. Her love had been won by the power of his intellect-the nobility of his spirit-the ferocity of his genius.

“I too am a great artist.” Olbricht had unconsciously said the words out loud.

His thoughts returned to the exhibition.

She would be impressed. Of that he was certain. She, and women like her. It was inconceivable that she was the only one-the only one who could recognize a hero. The only one who might want a pure, unsullied union-a union of souls.

Olbricht withdrew his shaking hand from the painting.

“I can make this better… better still,” he muttered. “Much, much better.”

He lifted his palette and inspected the brighter colors.

It must be a bolder work, a more challenging work, a work that reflected not only Pipara's inner strength-but his own.