The Woman Who Wouldn't
Page 8
THIRTY-FIVE
FOR THE SAKE OF A HEALTHY BABY, KARL ADVISEDus to wait until October before taking the trip to New York, where I owned a small but unique home that once, before automobiles took over for horses, was a carriage house. We decided to name our baby Emily, if it was a girl, and Spencer, if it was a boy.
On October 15th we said our good-byes. Clara went to Karl’s office. I told her that I’d join her in a few minutes; I wanted to see Chekhov one more time. I was told he was in the Garden café, eating whatever he was told to eat these days.
His face lit up when he saw me, but he looked paler than usual.
“How nice to see you, Jeremy. I was hoping you’d drop by.”
“We’re leaving today, Anton.”
“So I’ve heard. Crossing the ocean on a big ship should be wonderful this time of year, if the weather holds.”
“May I shake your hand, Anton?”
“No. I’m sorry. We’ve got to protect that baby, you know. Tell me something, will you?”
“Of course.”
“Have you had any more of your amusing attacks lately?”
“You mean, when I go a little crazy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if you call climbing a tree in Badenweiler to save a cat that wasn’t there, and then having to be rescued by a fire truck, ‘amusing,’ then yes. Just that once. But at least I was alone this time.”
“Just you and the cat, eh?”
“Just the two of us.”
“Well, that shows improvement,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “And Karl says that Clara is feeling well, yes?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Good luck, Jeremy. Write me a letter once in a while, will you? I told you—I don’t like to be alone.”
“I will.”
“And, if you don’t mind, I’d like to know how it goes when you start giving concerts again.” “Good-bye, Anton.”
I WALKED into Karl’s office just in time to catch a few falling tears. He gave both of us a warm hug. I could see that it was difficult for him to let go of Clara.
“I’ll take good care of her, Karl. I promise.”
“I know you will. I know you will. It’s just—hard to say good-bye to some people.”
Karl walked us out to the car, where Herr Kreiss was waiting. Karl kissed Clara one more time and then we got in. As the car pulled away, Clara turned down the window to wave. Karl hollered after us:
“Send me pictures of my godchild.”
THIRTY-SIX
S.S. BREMEN
OCTOBER 19, 1903
Dear Anton,
The voyage is beautiful and Clara is eating well, enjoying the lovely ocean air. Each afternoon we sit on deck, in lounge chairs, and have our tea and scones. Clara has herbal tea and I have my Earl Grey, of course. The steward covers us both with soft, warm blankets.
You were right, of course. I wasn’t “exploding with anger” at that music critic who said I didn’t show any true emotion when I played my violin. I went crazy in the middle of my concert in Cleveland when I realized that he was right.
I hope you’re not too lonely. I’ll write again soon.
With warm regards,
Jeremy
P.S. By the way, that infamous music critic from New York has very dark hair . . . almost as black as the sharps and flats on a Steinway piano.
THIRTY-SEVEN
WE LANDED AT THE PORT OF NEW YORK ON OCTO-ber 27. My little carriage house is nestled between two other homes on a quiet street called Minetta Lane. The house is a duplex and has a small guest bedroom, just right for the baby. As I had hoped, Clara loves the house.
I practice on my violin three to four hours a day, this gives Clara a chance to get to know the shops in our neighborhood. She also began knitting.
I visited my agent and told him that we were back and happy, and I wanted to work again, but that I would need more practice time before playing with an orchestra. I also said that I only wanted engagements that were close to New York. “I’m going to be a father, you see.”
I don’t believe in miracles—unless, of course, they happen to me. In Clara’s fourth month she held my hand against her abdomen and I felt a little kick from “our” fetus. I couldn’t tell if it was a girl kick or a boy kick.
On April 3, Emily Webb was born: seven pounds, three ounces.
On April 27, I played Beethoven’s Violin Concerto with the New York Philharmonic. The next day I got the following review from that same infamous music critic:
Last night, violinist Jeremy Spencer Webb performed Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major. As always, he was an exquisite technician, but last night true emotion poured from his heart and through his violin.
I sent the review to Anton.
On July 15, 1904, Anton Chekhov died in Badenweiler, Germany. By mistake, his body was sent to Moscow in a refrigerated railway car that had a painted sign on the outside that read FRESH OYSTERS. If Anton knew, I think he would have laughed out loud . . . and then wished he had written it into one of his short stories.