“It’s only a bit of nervous exhaustion,” Gretl said, setting down the tray at Alma’s bedside. “From all that travel and then coming back to Vienna and seeing those nasty articles about Gustav.”
As Alma had foreseen, the Viennese newspapers had gleefully printed columns and columns of garbled dreck concerning Gustav’s concerts in Rome. MAHLER’S CAREER IN SHAMBLES the headlines had screamed.
“You just need another rest cure,” her sister said. “Then you’ll feel fresh and happy again. But now you should eat something.”
Gretl planted herself on a chair as though she intended to perch there until Alma did as she was told. Alma regarded the steaming plate of chicken paprikash. Once it had been her favorite dish. Mama had served it the first time Gustav stayed for dinner eight and a half years ago. But Alma could no longer stomach the thought of shoving it down her throat.
“At least have the bread roll,” said Gretl. “Shall I butter it for you?”
Ignoring her sister, Alma paged through the photo album Mama had left on her bedside table. No doubt her mother had thought these pictures Carl had taken last summer at Trenkerhof would bring back happy memories. On the first page was a family portrait. Gustav filled the center foreground. Though he was a slight man, he seemed to take up as much space as a mountain. His image was sharp and clear, brilliant sunlight shining on his white summer cap and his shirtsleeves. He looked relaxed and at peace with the world. It was one of the few pictures that showed him smiling. Beside him stood Gucki. Three-quarters of their daughter’s face and upper torso were visible in the photograph. She squinted into the sun and looked as though she was trying to smile. In the background, nearly entirely obscured by her husband, was Alma. Only the brim of her straw hat, the blurred outline of her cheek, and part of one arm could be made out. Certainly not her face. Her stepfather’s photograph had literally relegated her to her husband’s shadow. I don’t exist anymore.
“No point in going back to Löweneck if it didn’t do you any good.” Gretl pried the photo album from Alma and handed her half of the buttered bread roll. “But I swear by Wildbad Sanatorium in Tobelbad! They don’t just starve you and hose you—they have the most divine hot mineral baths. New therapies, too. It’s run by a very forward-thinking naturopathic doctor. So many clever people go there. You’ll be surrounded by artists and intellectuals. Mama’s arranged for you to stay a full six weeks. And Carl made Gustav promise not to take you away too early like he did last time.”
Alma smiled wanly and bit into the bread roll. Gretl rewarded her with a blinding smile. Bounding from her chair, she bounced on the edge of Alma’s bed.
“You’ll be amazed,” her sister said, “at what six weeks of rest and therapy can do!”
40
What is the point of any of this? Alma heaved herself out of bed with the ringing of the sanatorium’s wake-up bell. The sun had barely risen, but it was time for the morning hike. Some rest cure.
She felt like a faulty piece of machinery. Every spring she broke down, the consequence of her husband’s intense spirit driving her on until she could take no more. And then she, accompanied by her daughter and the nanny, entered a clinic where the doctors attempted to solder her back together so she could resume her duties. At least until the following spring when she fell apart again. But what if she couldn’t be fixed this time? What if she simply couldn’t go on with her life as it was? In trying to be the woman Gustav wanted her to be, she had only destroyed herself. I no longer have a self. I am nothing.
Gustav remained as tone deaf as ever to her anguish. She had nearly ripped his last letter to pieces.
Such a sad little epistle, Almschi! It truly makes me depressed to learn that you’re still angry about Rome. Yes, I remember being irritable and annoyed because you were doing your utmost to persuade me to stay and carry on. I simply didn’t understand you. Perhaps meanwhile you’ve come to see things differently. In any case, I shall never put up with anything like those rehearsals and concerts again.
Alma yanked her loose shift over her head and shuffled out for her morning walk. Hiking barefoot up and down the steep Styrian hills, through forest and meadow in every weather, was the hallmark of Wildbad Sanatorium’s philosophy. As she plodded down the stairs and out the door, Alma kept her head down, not wanting to be drawn into discussion as to why the wife of the great Gustav Mahler was here being treated for hysteria.
She scarcely understood why Gretl had enthused about this place. As far as Alma was concerned, the regime was nearly identical to what she had experienced at Löweneck. She had to wear the same kind of hideous sack, resign herself to the same buttermilk and lettuce diet. Only the hot mineral baths were different.
When Alma had returned from her walk, she lowered herself with clenched teeth into the simmering outdoor tub. This sanatorium believed in doing nearly everything outdoors. The healing stimulation of Nature, the doctors called it. Gretl had loved the baths, but Alma felt as though she were being boiled to death in a cannibal’s cooking pot.
At long last the Bademeister told her it was time to get out. Still in her shift, Alma clambered over the rim of the tub, inhaled one breath of the crisp, pine-scented air. And then she fainted.
When Alma came to, she found herself on one of the outdoor beds used for sun baths. Her wet shift was covered in a warm wool blanket and Herr Doktor Lahmann, the head of the clinic, smiled down at her with what resembled paternal benevolence. He measured her pulse and told her to rest until her blood pressure had returned to normal. Alma nodded like an obedient child, all the while wishing he would just leave her alone. Why couldn’t they simply leave her be?
“Frau Direktor Mahler,” the doctor said. “I’m very concerned about you. You seem so melancholy and withdrawn. Sadness and loneliness feed on each other. It would be much better if you could socialize with the other cure guests.”
Cure guests! She nearly snorted at the absurd euphemism for the patients being treated for hysteria and nerve sickness.
“Every cure guest’s needs are different,” he said. “For you, Frau Direktor, I prescribe dancing.”
“Dancing,” she echoed, her voice as flat as the felt slippers they let her wear when she wasn’t forced to go barefoot.
“You can wear a pretty dress if you like,” the doctor said, as though reading her mind.
The therapeutic dancing commenced at two o’clock in the solarium. One of the more musically gifted cure guests was stationed at the upright piano and played waltzes by Franz Lehár. Alma, clad in the gauzy linen-and-lace tea dress she had packed in case Gustav or Mama came to visit, halted on the threshold. Who would they make her dance with? Some wheezing old man with halitosis?
Seeing her hesitate, Dr. Lahmann came to take her ceremoniously by the hand and lead her up to a tall, slender youth of almost unbearable beauty. She tried not to blush or gape. With his dark hair and moustache, he was handsome enough to play Walther von Stolzing in Wagner’s Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg. While the doctor made the introductions, the young man gave her a courtly bow, enhancing the illusion that Alma could leave the wretched realities of her life behind and escape into the fantasy of a romantic opera.
“Frau Direktor Alma Maria Mahler, may I introduce you to Herr Walter Gropius,” the doctor said, before stepping away.
A frisson passed through Alma from the moment this young man took her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist. What was such a healthy, cheerful-looking person even doing here, she wondered. Flirting with him simply wouldn’t do. Surely a young man like him would see her as a needy, neurotic matron. He was only doing her a kindness by agreeing to dance with her. She tried to stay cool and detached, but he was so very charming.
“Dancing makes a nice change from boiling in the baths,” he said, with a laugh, inviting her to laugh along. His accent revealed him to be German.
“You’re a long way from home, Herr Gropius,” she said, as they glided across the parquet floor. He was so tall, she had to tilt her
head just to look at him. “Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m an architect.”
So he wasn’t just good-looking but also accomplished. She learned that he was from Berlin and that his doctor had sent him here to be treated for a persistent chill. He had recently established his own very successful partnership with another rising young architect. And he had just turned twenty-seven. In August Alma would be thirty-one.
“My partner and I have designed a shoe factory,” Gropius said, his manner genial and uncomplicated. Not self-important in the least. “And before you laugh, Frau Direktor, let me tell you that it will be the most modern and avant-garde shoe factory you can imagine. Clean, simple lines. Walls of glass windows instead of oppressive brick. Why shouldn’t the working class enjoy space, air, and light?”
His youthful idealism was beguiling. She smiled into his eyes, the darkest shade of hazel. This young man was simply too perfect. She glanced across the room to see Dr. Lahmann beaming in approval.
“Herr Gropius, if I commissioned you to build a house for me, what would it be like?” Alma pretended for a moment to be a woman of means. Unmarried and independent.
“A truly organic building, free of untruth or ornamentation or any hint of kitsch.” Gropius lifted his eyes in exasperation at the elaborately molded ceiling with its cherubs and floral garlands. “Everything bold and free.”
“And the people who live in your houses—will they also be bold and free?” she asked him teasingly.
“That’s my dream, Frau Direktor—that architecture can change the world. I want to design apartments that are simple, functional, and affordable. Every working-class family should be able to own a home.”
They began conversing about a modern utopia and the emancipated men and women who would live in it. She told him of her connections to the architects of the Vienna Secession.
“I was a close friend of Josef Maria Olbrich’s while he still lived in Vienna,” she said, blushing slightly to remember how Olbrich had wooed her—it seemed like another lifetime. Two years ago, her old admirer had died of leukemia. “But the New Yorkers are the cutting edge!” she went on, not wanting to dwell on melancholy thoughts. “Their skyscrapers are the new cathedrals.”
She described what it had been like to live on the eleventh floor and then told him of all the exciting freethinkers she had met in America. Of Natalie Curtis and Hopi music.
Gropius seemed entranced. “You must lead a very cosmopolitan life, Frau Direktor, being married to such a famous man.”
Her jaw clenched. “I don’t want to talk about my husband.”
“If the truth be told, neither do I,” he said, his face softening. “I would much rather talk about you.”
Alma’s skin went as hot as though she were up to her neck in the bubbling thermal springs. Gropius was the first man in eight years to see her as her own person, not as an appendage of Gustav Mahler. Even Ossip’s infatuation had been held in check by his awe for her husband. She suddenly felt shy and uncertain.
“My father was an artist,” she said. “Emil Schindler.”
“I know and admire his paintings. He was the greatest Austrian landscape artist. But what about you?” He looked at her entreatingly.
“I . . .” Alma closed her eyes. “I dreamed of being a composer. I still have a folder full of music.”
“After the dancing hour finishes, I would love to hear it.” He nodded toward the piano in the corner.
She stared into his eyes and thought she would weep in amazement. This young architect, nearly four years her junior, was falling in love with her. And if I’m not very careful, I shall fall hopelessly in love with him.
Alma went to get her secret folder of songs that she carried with her everywhere, the way some women carry prayer books or photographs of old lovers. Arranging her music on the piano, she played and sang her songs for Gropius.
This is harmless, she assured herself. Gustav will never find out. Never trouble himself about what I get up to at a sanatorium, of all places. Here in this rural spa, she felt suspended in time and space. In this sheltered lacuna, she could finally wriggle out of the straightjacket of being the wife of an exalted genius. She could simply be. Be herself, the Alma she once was. Passionate and questing. Oh, to live. To truly live.
After she had finished playing, Gropius took her hand. “Your music is so full of sensual beauty. You’re a true artist. A freethinker like me. A New Woman.”
She was speechless, any words she could think to say drowned out by the tidal pounding in her head. This was a dream. She would wake up and return to cold reality any second. Well, then, let me enjoy this dream while it lasts.
“Will you call me Walter?” he asked, using the familiar Du. “I want to hear you say my name.”
“Walter,” she murmured, as he leaned forward to caress her cheek.
“And may I call you Alma?”
She nodded, offering her mouth to his kiss.
When Alma joined Miss Turner and Gucki in the garden later that day, she took her daughter in her lap and covered her in kisses. “Show your mama what beautiful pictures you’ve drawn today, sweetheart. You’ll grow up to be a great artist like your grandfather.”
“Frau Direktor, you look so well,” Miss Turner said. “This cure seems to be just what you needed.”
This was just a Liebelei, an infatuation. This was healthy. The next morning Alma embarked on her barefoot hike with more verve than ever before. Walter walked at her side, his face flushed with the secret mirth they shared. When they were out of view of the other cure guests, they held hands. Laughing, they raced across a meadow sparkling with dew. Walter gave her a head start before sprinting after her. When he caught her around the waist, she whooped with both shock and pleasure. They tumbled into the damp grass together.
“What did Dr. Lahmann call his medical philosophy again?” Walter asked, tracing her brow with a harebell blossom. “The healing stimulation of Nature?”
They shared a sweet, lingering kiss that made her tremble. The hard and brittle places inside her softened and became as pliant as dough. This young man was indeed her medicine, the magical elixir that restored her youth. For the first time since New York, she was happy. Grateful to be alive. Until Walter had given her the kiss of life, she had been a walking corpse.
You raised me from the dead, Alma was about to tell him. But when she opened her mouth to speak, his tongue twined with hers. Gently lifting the small of her back, he arched her body to his. A tingling burning filled her entire being. I’ve forgotten what it was to feel like this. To be cherished and held.
At least her ugly shift served a purpose. She hitched it effortlessly to her waist and pulled her lover inside her. My lover! The ecstasy that flooded her was so powerful, she had to cover her mouth to keep from crying out and betraying their secret.
More than just a Liebelei then. Alma had to admit she was falling deeply in love. The heightened sense of being alive again after so many months of numbness made her reckless, daring to write the unthinkable to her husband. To ask the unaskable.
Gustav, do you even love me anymore? I haven’t felt your tenderness in so long.
He replied from Munich, where he was rehearsing his Eighth Symphony with a monumental choir and orchestra that totaled more than one thousand musicians. The performance, which would take place in September, would surely be the crowning glory of his career.
Almschi, you silly sausage, why trouble your head with such nonsense? I’ve never been fonder of you than I am now. How could you think otherwise?
When she neglected to reply, he berated her.
How should one react to such a woman-child who can’t even answer my letters?
And when she still didn’t write, his tone turned from complacency to consternation.
After your last sad letter and then your silence, I must ask if you’re concealing something from me. I keep sensing something between the lines.
Lest he grow too suspicious, Alma
sent him Gucki’s latest drawings along with a letter that praised their daughter’s progress on the piano, which she practiced every evening to the cure guests’ delight.
Our little Gucki’s a prodigy, just like her brilliant papa!
Late that evening, Alma and Walter stole away to sit beside a stream while the moon arched above the swaying trees. In the sapphire hush of night, Alma finally found the courage to pour out her despair, to speak of the deep wounds of marriage that she hadn’t been able to confess to anyone else, even her mother or sister.
“He seems to think I’m some lesser being. Not a fully developed person. Eight years of having an ascetic schoolmaster for a husband! You gave me more passion and pleasure in one night than he gave me in our entire marriage.”
Walter wiped away her tears. “Your husband is of the old generation who thought wives were there to serve and suffer. Come away with me, Alma. We can live a free life. Two free souls together. It’s simply wrong that you should be his spiritual slave.”
The future he painted for them was intoxicating. She wanted to distill his words into a bottle and imbibe a little of that potion every day for the rest of her life.
During the dancing hour, Alma endeavored to veil her love from the other cure guests, which was no easy thing. If Walter so much as looked at her, she sparkled and warmed. Waltzing in his arms, she felt like Alma Schindler in days of old, twenty-one and so full of hope and potential, breathlessly discussing art, architecture, music, and literature. Walter listened as though she were the most beautiful and cultured woman he had ever met.
Ecstasy Page 32
