by Gene Wilder
“I get very nervous when I meet people I really respect.”
“Why?”
“Well—I hope this doesn’t offend you, but—”
“Mr. Webb, I don’t offend easily.”
“Well, almost all of the people I’ve idolized from afar—composers and conductors from other countries, mostly—turned out to be very disappointing when I actually met them.”
“We’re off to a good start. I feel exactly the same way. I hope I don’t disappoint you if we have something to drink together. Would you care for a little white wine with me, or would you prefer something stronger?”
“Some white wine would be fine. Thank you.”
Chekhov waved to the waiter.
“Two glasses of Gutedel—nice and cold,” he said to the waiter. “By the way, have you read any of my short stories, Mr. Webb?”
“No.”
“They’re much better than my plays. What brings you to this lovely health resort?”
“Oh, well . . . um . . . I had been working very hard, and was very tired, and—”
“Why did you suddenly stop playing the violin in Ohio? Do you have any idea?”
His question caught me completely off guard. I tried to answer intelligently, but nothing intelligent came out.
“That’s difficult to—I mean, it’s a little embarrassing for me because—I—”
“Was it something to do with the tuba, or the tuba player?” he asked.
I felt drenched with humiliation, afraid that I was going to laugh and cry at the same time.
“Oh, dear. Dr. Gross told you about that. I’m so embarrassed. I’m not quite sure what—I mean how to—”
“Please, don’t waste your time being embarrassed—not with me. Forgive me for asking such personal questions, especially on our first meeting. It’s just that what happened to you fascinates me, especially giving the tuba a drink of water and pounding only on the black keys of a Steinway piano. It’s wonderful! I’m not making fun of you, Mr. Webb—it’s just that I wish I could have had the imagination to write these things in one of my stories, instead of hearing that they happened to you.”
“So do I.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. When we do something completely out of our control, I think it’s probably a good thing.”
“A good thing?” I blurted out.
“Yes. Perhaps something worthwhile wants to come out, if only it knew how . . . Don’t you think?”
“It’s a comforting thought,” I said.
The waiter rushed in with our wine. Chekhov raised his glass. “To love!” he said.
“Now why on earth do you say that?” I asked as we clicked glasses.
“Why not?” he said with a tiny smile.
As we both took a sip of wine, I thought, What a strange bird he is.
SIX
AN HOUR LATER, DRESSED IN MY LIGHT BLUE SPORT jacket, tan trousers and white shirt, I went to the Garden café where I ordered something called Schwartzwalder Schinken, which Maurice the French waiter said was dry cured ham—a local dish and one of the resort’s specialties. As I was sipping a glass of cold Gutedel, smiling as I remembered Chekhov’s silly toast “To love,” Clara Mulpas walked in.
As she walked toward me, the preposterous thought flashed through my mind that Chekhov was staging this whole thing, as if it were one of his plays. Hold on now, Jeremy. You’re thinking crazy again.
I made no attempt to sway Clara Mulpas in her choice of tables, but as irony would have it, down she sat at the same table she’d sat at the night before—the one next to me.
When she very casually looked in my direction I made sure not to smile or nod my head in greeting. But this time she smiled. The mouth that didn’t smile actually smiled at me. So of course, I smiled back. And then the cocky seducer in me took over.
“Good evening Miss Mulpas . . . or is it Mrs. Mulpas?”
“It’s Mrs. Mulpas and no, I wouldn’t,” she said, guessing what my next question was going to be. How infuriating, that she could read me so exactly. I was only going to ask her if she’d like a glass of wine, but I’m sure she knew what was going to come next: “Two lonely people, far from home . . . What a shame that we aren’t sitting together, Mrs. Mulpas.” She knew a flirt when she saw one. I must give off a scent.
My supper arrived, but before I took even one bite, I suddenly jumped up, stood on the seat of my chair and screamed out to the whole room, “I’M HAVING THE SCHWARTZWALDER SCHINKEN, AND I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK!”
I felt ridiculous and my face was wet with humiliation. After making a complete fool of myself, I sat down as quickly as I could and buried my head into my napkin. Oh, my God, I really am crazy. I must be. Where did that come from? Now I know how that poor lady must have felt the other night, when she tried to mask her tears behind her napkin.
To my great surprise, Clara Mulpas called out to me.
“Do you mind if I join you, Mr. Webb?”
“With pleasure, Mrs. Mulpas,” I answered, as I quickly wiped the perspiration from my forehead.
I helped her into the chair opposite me and improvised a lie. “Please forgive my outburst, Mrs. Mulpas. I had made a really stupid bet with a friend of mine who said that I would never have the nerve to do such a crazy thing in front of all these people. Forgive me. It was just a childish prank.”
“I liked it,” she said.
I was stunned.
“I’m tired of people who can’t tolerate little pranks, if they’re good-hearted pranks,” she said. “Or people who can’t say what they really think. What was it you told all of us that you were having for dinner? It made me laugh.”
“Schwartzwalder Schinken. Sounds funny when you say it in German, but it’s really just slow cured ham. Would you like me to order some for you?” I asked.
“No, I’ll just have the house salad tonight. I’m not very hungry.” She glanced at the waiter, who came quickly.
“Yes, Madame Mulpas,” the waiter said. “Ready to order?”
“Je voudrais la salade, encore, Maurice.”
“Très bien, Madame.”
Then she turned and looked straight at me as she said, “And a glass of Gutedel—nice and cold.”
“Of course, Madame.”
Maurice left. “You like that little wine?” I asked.
“I had some at lunch. You were right. It’s very pleasant. Please don’t wait for me, Mr. Webb. Your meal will get cold.”
“No, no. It’s a room temperature dish. And anyway, I’d prefer to wait for you.”
“May I ask what you’re occupation is, Mr. Webb?”
“I’m a violinist.”
Her face lit up. “Do you mean that you play the violin for a living?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“With an orchestra?”
“Very often, yes.”
“How wonderful,” she said. “Have you ever played in Brussels?”
“Not yet. Is that where you live?”
“Yes.”
Maurice arrived with her wine. We raised our glasses.
“Cheers,” I said.
“Santé,” she said.
As we each took a sip of wine, I purposely did not look “deeply into her eyes,” even though I really wanted to.
“What does Mr. Mulpas do?” I asked, using one of my old tricks.
“He runs away from people.”
“I’m . . . I don’t think I know what you mean, Mrs. Mulpas.”
“I mean that when he found out that I had a cancer, he couldn’t bear the possibility of living with an invalid, possibly having to take care of her, possibly watching her die, and with no possibility of having children. . . . So he left, weeping, as he packed his things, including his cigars, and walked out. Men are like that, you know. Not all men, of course, but I think most men are.”
Unsure of what ground to walk on, I just said, “I see.” Clara’s salad arrived in time to save me from saying something foolish.
WHILE I was having coffee
and Clara was having her herbal tea, three ladies and one stout gentleman walked in with their instruments—two violins, a viola, and a cello for the gentleman. They made their way to a small gazebo, gave a polite nod to the audience, and began tuning their instruments. When they were satisfied, the first violinist made a little motion with her head, and they all began playing Mozart’s String Quartet in D Minor, in perfect harmony.
Clara Mulpas watched me smile as I watched them play. “Tell me why you’re smiling, Mr. Webb?”
“It’s just that I’ve played this piece several times. This quartet plays together beautifully.”
We talked quietly for almost an hour. I didn’t flirt. I was tempted to, of course, but I didn’t. Like Chekhov, Clara Mulpas was straight to the point with everything she said. I didn’t tell her about my breakdown in Ohio—I wasn’t as brave as Clara.
“Why are you here alone, Mr. Webb?”
“Well . . . let’s see . . . I’m not married, or otherwise engaged,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t catch the flirt at work.
“Why aren’t you married or otherwise engaged?” she asked, very seriously.
“I was married, for the most miserable three years of my life, and that turned me off of marriage for good, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t waste your time being afraid, Jeremy. Fall in love before it’s too late—it’s healthier for you. And for your work, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” I answered. “Doesn’t your advice apply to you as well?”
“It would have—but it’s a little late for me,” she said with a cheerful smile that didn’t in any way ask for pity.
She stared at me for half a minute. When the clock chimed ten o’clock she got up and said, “Have a pleasant evening, Jeremy. I hope to hear you play the violin one day.” And she left.
I finished my glass of Gutedel and went back to my room.
My desires were getting mixed up. Still attracted to Clara Mulpas? Yes, of course, even more than before. But making love with a pretty young woman who doesn’t take it at all seriously, only for pleasure, a little fun for a few days, a week, a night . . . Yes! But hugging Clara’s very thin, naked body would be quite different. She is someone who would not be doing it for “a night of fun,” who not only listens to you but also hears what you’re saying, who is deeply honest about everything she says and who might just fall in love with all of your womanizing hogwash. . . . Well, that’s a different world, a much more serious world, and not one that I wished to enter.
Later that night, I fell asleep remembering the thin veil of perspiration on Clara’s forehead, and how sensuous it was.
SEVEN
“HOW DO THE CRITICS TREAT YOU, MR. WEBB?” Chekhov asked while we were having tea the next afternoon.
“Usually very well . . . very respectful . . .”
Chekhov stared at me with his penetrating eyes, giving me a chance to continue. But when he saw that I was lost in thought, he said, “Except?”
“Pardon me?” I asked.
“They were very respectful, except . . . ?”
My cheeks felt hot. I finally spoke. “I was playing the Mendelssohn violin concerto in New York and . . . the next morning . . . the dean of the New York music critics wrote something like . . . um . . . let me see if I—”
“I’m sure you remember the exact words, Mr. Webb.”
“The critic wrote, ‘Mr. Webb’s violin playing is exceptional on a technical level, but is completely without emotional reality. He knows how to play louder and softer, faster and slower, but nothing else.’”
Chekhov looked at me very kindly. “Even if you don’t think you’re bothered by what you read in that newspaper, Jeremy, somewhere inside your brain it must tear you apart. Don’t you think?”
I nodded a polite yes. I thought it was kind of him to call me by my first name.
“For twenty-five years I’ve read criticisms of my stories and plays and I don’t remember one word of intelligent advice. One time, a critic said something which made an impression on me—he said I would die in a ditch, drunk.” Chekhov started laughing. Then he started coughing.
“Excuse me, Jeremy,” he said as he got up and left the room.
I wanted to help him, but couldn’t. I hate the feeling of being helpless.
That evening, as I was shaving and preparing to go to the Garden café for supper, I thought about Chekhov’s words and wondered if I understood any more about why I poured water into a tuba or tore up the first violinist’s musical score or pounded on the black keys of a beautiful Steinway piano. It still made no sense to me.
EIGHT
CLIMBING HILLS WAS NEVER ONE OF MY GREAT AM-bitions. Perhaps I was just lazy, but I admit—now that I’ve been climbing a hill every other day—that it’s very difficult to think about the stresses in your life while you’re trying to avoid falling backwards when a goat with large horns is chasing you because you came too close to the little patch of grass he was planning to eat for breakfast. When I finally made it down the hill and saw the resort, all I could think about was a hot bath with the boys and then a nice pot of Earl Grey tea with some scones.
That evening, I was a little nervous about seeing Clara again. I even imagined the unlikely possibility of an intimate relationship with her, if only I could find a way to overcome her very definite “No, I wouldn’t” response. I sat down in the Garden café, ordered some Gutedel, and watched for her as the café began to fill up.
When Clara arrived I thought her appearance had changed slightly. Not suddenly more beautiful or anything as romantic as that; she just seemed weaker, even though the dress she wore was much more colorful than the other two dresses I had seen her in. This dress was mostly crimson red with sprinkles of foam green, and was almost in perfect contrast to her very pale face.
I didn’t make the masculine assumption that she would want to sit with me again, now that we were such friendly acquaintances. I gave her a pleasant smile as she came near and I didn’t prepare any questions in my mind that started with the words, “Would you?”
To my great surprise, Clara came straight to my table and waited for me to pull out a chair.
“Good evening, Jeremy.”
“Good evening, Clara.”
There’s something to this forthrightness business. It’s refreshing.
“Do you think they’ll have music tonight?” Clara asked with the eagerness of a child.
“It’s such a beautiful night, I’m sure they will. May I ask how you’re feeling, Clara?”
“Fine, thank you,” she said with a sincere smile, which I didn’t believe for a minute.
“Shall we have some Gutedel?” she asked. “It seems to work wonders on my whole disposition. It even takes away headaches. Oh, here they come!”
The musicians walked in, but tonight there were only three of them. They made a little nod to the guests and then the stout man who played the cello stepped forward and said in his slightly German accent: “Ladies and gentlemen, how nice again to see you. But I have a little sorry news. Our first violinist, Madame Denise Chobrier, is home with sore throat, but—I have her violin case right here . . . and we also have a famous violinist right here . . . and if it is not a bad imposition, would you please play something with us, Mr. Jeremy Webb from America?”
He pointed to me, the guests applauded, and my heart pounded violently. This wouldn’t have bothered me in the least before the horrible incident in Cleveland, but the fear that I would become a lunatic again, and do God knows what, filled me with terror.
I looked at Clara, who seemed thrilled at the lovely surprise.
“Would you like—I mean—Do you want me to play something with them, Clara?”
“Oh yes, very much.”
I got up and joined the musicians, for which I was applauded again. The three musicians and I talked for a minute or two about what we should play and what music they had in their books. I asked if they had Schumann’s Quartet in E Flat or the Borodin Quartet No. 2. The
cellist said, “We all love the Borodin, Mr. Webb; it’s so romantic and we have the music for it.”
While they were turning the pages of their music books, I made a short speech to the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please don’t throw tomatoes if we don’t all play together on every note”—the audience laughed—“but we’ll try our best. This is the Borodin String Quartet Number Two.”
I sat down in Madame Chobrier’s chair, took the violin out of her case, and tested my “A” note against the other musicians’. I looked at the first page of music for a few seconds, most of which I remembered, then looked up at my compatriots, gave a slight nod of my head, and we all began playing, in perfect time. The sound was beautiful. So far so good! When there was a slight pause in my part, I glanced quickly at Clara, who seemed enthralled.
I started to become confident that everything was going to go smoothly, when—don’t ask me why—I took my violin bow and started bowing my head, and yet my left hand kept fingering the proper strings. I’m sure the audience must have thought that I had an itch on my forehead or scalp or something like that. No one seemed terribly alarmed by my action—until I started bowing my ear. Now the audience was confused. The other musicians continued playing their parts but I saw complete bewilderment on their faces.
During the next pause in my part, I quickly wiped the perspiration from my forehead and looked out at the audience. I saw Dr. Gross, sitting stone faced at his table. Next to him, in his immaculate white suit, was Anton Chekhov. My fear was that they were thinking, “Yes, this poor fellow really is crazy.”
On my next cue, I started in time with the others and thought that perhaps the crisis was over, when—with absolutely no premeditation—I started bowing my teeth, and yet my left hand kept fingering the strings in perfect time. Laughter burst out from the guests. I’m sure they thought that this was all planned beforehand as a little comedy act. But Dr. Gross wasn’t laughing. I couldn’t stop glancing at him as I tried to concentrate. I told myself that he was pulling for me, urging my psyche to get rid of whatever demon was making me do these ridiculous things. Perhaps it was Karl Gross’s inspiration, but from then on I played fairly well and in harmony with the other musicians.
