The Woman Who Wouldn't

by Gene Wilder

  When we finished the piece the audience applauded enthusiastically.

  “What a treat!” I heard a lady call out.

  “Bravo!” a man shouted from a nearby table.

  I tried to smile, as if to say, “I hope you enjoyed our little show.” But I didn’t have the nerve to look at my three fellow musicians. They were dumbfounded.

  When I returned to my table I felt like a little dog that had made a mess on the floor and was afraid of being punished. Clara wasn’t smiling but she wasn’t grim either. There was just a question mark on her face.

  “Did you plan all of those funny things beforehand, Jeremy?”

  “Well, no, it was—well, just spontaneous,” I said, trying to make it sound like it was the silly act of a clown instead of a lunatic.

  “But why? The music was so lovely.”

  “I know, Clara, but . . . ooph, it’s so difficult to explain. I went too far, I know, but some of these people have suffered so much with their illnesses, and I . . . something came over me and I just wanted to give them a good laugh as well as some good music.”

  Clara looked at me with her beautiful cerulean blue eyes, in which I could read one simple word: LIAR!

  I hardly slept that night, except for one horrible nightmare: I was in a straitjacket. All the patients in the hospital were laughing and throwing tomatoes at me. Some of the tomatoes hit me in the face. Then a very kind-looking, elderly doctor with a soft white beard took my violin out of its case, and showed it to me. As he smashed my violin over a chair, breaking it in half, he said, “Please forgive.”

  NINE

  WHEN I GOT UP THE NEXT MORNING I DECIDED TO get the stifling anger off my chest. I was heading for Dr. Gross’s office when I saw Chekhov walking at a fast pace nearby. He looked comical because he was wearing a beautifully pressed tan suit, clean white shirt, blue tie, and a wide-brimmed tan hat, but he was carrying a tackle box in one hand and a fishing rod in the other. When he saw me he gave a slight smile and a polite “hello,” but he kept on walking.

  I jogged quickly to catch up with him. I asked if he knew whether it had been planned beforehand to have the missing violinist, Madame Chobrier, stay at home so that I would have to take her place.

  “I know nothing except that Karl Gross asked me to have supper with him last night.”

  “Did you come up to my table on the day we met because Dr. Gross asked you to talk with me?”

  “I wanted to meet you because I heard that you’re a famous musician and I love music. I also love fishing and an abundance of young ladies,” he said with a soft smile, “but my love of music was the reason I wanted to meet you.”

  “And what did you think of my unique performance last night?” I asked as I tried to keep pace with him.

  “I thought you were terribly afraid of something,” he said. “What did your pretty lady friend think of your performance?”

  “I told her that I did all of those crazy things for the sake of the guests who were ill and who needed a good laugh, but she knew I was lying.”

  “I like her,” he said.

  “Excuse my American audacity, but have you ever been terribly afraid of anything, Mr. Chekhov—I mean as an adult?”

  Chekhov stopped walking and looked at me.

  “I’m always afraid of being alone, Jeremy—and I live in terror of going bald.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “I assure you I’m not. Now please excuse me. I have an important rendezvous with a striped bass. I intend to invite him over for dinner tonight,” he said. I stopped walking and watched Chekhov head toward a small lake that I could now see was only about five hundred yards away.

  I TOLD Dr. Gross that I believe I saw him in my nightmare and told him what he did to my violin and that the other patients were throwing tomatoes at me. He was silent for a while, and then looked at me without the usual, tender smile on his face.

  “Oh, Mr. Webb, I promise you that I never do things to patients for my own amusement. Always there is a reason. Last night I only wanted to see if playing the violin again, in front of a very small audience, would cause you trouble. Which of course it did.”

  “Can you tell me what my nightmare means?”

  “I think you are very afraid that you won’t be able to play your violin. That’s all. But you will, Jeremy. I promise.”

  His sweet smile returned. “Please forgive me,” he said.

  I did forgive him, both to his face and also in my heart, now that I understood. We shook hands warmly and I was about to leave, when I stopped in his doorway.

  “Dr. Gross, is Mrs. Mulpas well enough to go on a walk with me one of these days?”

  “If you can get her to go, I would dance a jig.”

  TEN

  I WAITED IN THE GARDEN CAFÉ TILL ALMOST EIGHT-thirty before ordering my supper, and then Clara walked in. She looked even more pale than the night before, but she was wearing a lovely rose-colored dress and she had a small pink ribbon in her hair, which I think spoke something of her spirit.

  I didn’t have to ask her to sit with me; she came right to my table and waited for me to help her into “her chair.” After we both sat down, she said, “Today was a little difficult. I hope you weren’t waiting for me to eat.”

  “I wasn’t hungry yet. Now I’m famished.” “You’re a good liar, Jeremy. What did you order tonight—the Schinkenshwarzensomethingorother again?”

  “No, just the baby chicken, with some steamed potatoes and spinach.”

  “Um, that sounds wonderful. Was the Gutedel nice and cold, the way you like?”

  “It was. Are you ready for some?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Maurice, who was becoming our friend, came rushing over before I could wave.

  “Madame!”

  “Pour moi, le poussin, aussi, Maurice.”

  “Très bien, Madame. Et le Gutedel—nice and cold?”

  “Yes,” she said with a smile in my direction.

  When Maurice left, Clara said, “You have him nicely trained, I see.”

  “He’s a fast learner. Now then, Clara, let’s get down to some serious business. Would you take a walk with me, one of these days, if the weather is good, which it always is . . . and if I’m very polite, which I will be? And please notice that I didn’t say, ‘Would you like?’ because I don’t want to hear another one of your ‘No, I wouldn’ts.’”

  “Thank you, Jeremy, but that’s something I would have to talk over with Dr. Gross.”

  “I already have. He said yes. He also said that he would do a jig if I could get you to go.”

  She looked away so seriously, as if she were trying to decide the fate of her whole life.

  “All right . . . I would like.”

  ELEVEN

  OUR FIRST RENDEZVOUS

  The next day Clara and I took our first walk together. The weather was calm and fine; not too warm, but cool enough to enjoy the air. Clara wore a light sweater over her dress. One of the walking paths I was told about wound its way along the small lake called “Mummelsee.”

  Now, I’m a flirt and I can’t say that I’m ashamed of it, but as attracted as I was to Clara, I was very careful. I didn’t want her instincts yelling out, “Here it comes—be careful!” So I gave myself these rules: no hand holding and no disguised flirting—like casually slipping my arm around her waist as we walked—because she’d see right through me. So I only held her hand or arm or waist if she happened to stumble on a rock or a branch or a hole in the earth, and in those cases, I admit, I would hold on a few seconds longer than was actually necessary. I couldn’t help it—that’s the way I am.

  When a deer crossed our path, Clara was momentarily startled. I grabbed her hand.

  “She’s more afraid of us than you are of her, Clara. I promise.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that it took me by surprise. We don’t have many deer in Brussels.”

  “Oh look!” I said, still holding her hand. “Do you see her tw
o fawns waiting for their mother?”

  We stopped for a moment and watched the fawns disappear into the woods, following their mama. Clara did not pull her hand away.

  “They’re so beautiful,” she said.

  As we continued our walk along the lake, Clara continued to hold my hand. We saw a group of young boys splashing each other in the shallow water, playing in the same way that I remembered playing when I was a young boy, swimming in the lakes in Wisconsin with my twelve- and thirteen-year-old friends, whose voices were changing from soprano to tenor. We all practiced swaying our hips from side to side, trying to prove how close we were to sexual manhood, although we wouldn’t have known to call it that.

  Clara was fascinated by a group of ducks who were waddling between the green pods and weeds along the shore, dunking their heads suddenly when they thought they saw a tasty bit of lunch in the dark water. Then Clara stopped walking.

  “Just want to catch my breath, Jeremy. It’s beautiful here. Thank you for asking me, but I think I’d better go back now.”

  So ended our first little rendezvous.

  Well, what did I expect—a conquest? Not yet, Casanova. Not yet.

  TWELVE

  I SPENT THE AFTERNOON IN A MINERAL SPRING, followed by a pleasant massage, a shower, and then was off to the Garden café for my tea and scones. There was Chekhov, sitting alone, as always, drinking some strange white concoction. He waved me over.

  “Won’t you have your tea and scones with me, Jeremy? Why should we both be alone?”

  “What in the world are you drinking?” I asked as I sat down.

  “It’s called koumiss. It’s fermented mare’s milk, which is supposed to be a source of good bacilli, and I’m supposed to drink four bottles of this unpleasant swill every day. Would you like to try some?” he said with a smile.

  “Thank you, no. I don’t want to appear rude, but I’m not sure what I should call you anymore. I feel silly always saying ‘Mr. Chekhov,’ like a schoolboy, but your culture is so different from mine.”

  “Why not call me Anton?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “If I can call you Jeremy, why shouldn’t you call me Anton? Unless you prefer Anton Pavlovic?”

  “No, no. Anton is fine.”

  The waiter came over and, knowing very well what I always had in the afternoons, he set hot tea and scones in front of me.

  “Did you catch your striped bass yesterday, Anton?”

  “Yes, I did. The two of us had a lovely dinner together. I’m sorry I ran away from you so quickly, but I wanted to get my line in the water before the sun became too bright.”

  Then, from out of nowhere, Chekhov said, “Speaking of critics, Jeremy, are you familiar with Tolstoy?”

  “Leo Tolstoy?”

  “There’s only one Tolstoy. I wasn’t there when he came to see Uncle Vanya, but I asked a friend, who was with him that night, what Tolstoy thought of my play. I asked him to tell me the absolute truth. My friend hemmed and hawed for a while and then said, ‘Tolstoy hadn’t understood the play and he thought you were an appalling playwright, but not as bad as Shakespeare.’”

  Chekhov laughed and took another swallow of his mare’s milk.

  “Instead of going off in a corner and sulking, I found it hilarious,” he said.

  “And you want me to just laugh at the New York critic who thought my violin playing had no real feeling?”

  “If I can take it from Tolstoy, you can take it from an egotistical critic who is probably more interested in his clever words than in your violin playing. He probably won’t even be there in a year or two. Don’t let your tea get cold, Jeremy.”

  THIRTEEN

  THAT NIGHT, CLARA SHOWED UP A FEW MINUTES after eight. She looked better than when I had left her after our morning walk. I thought she had more color in her cheeks, perhaps from the sun, and she looked prettier than ever. I wondered how many dresses she’d brought with her from Brussels because she always came into the café in what looked like a new dress. Well, I supposed there might be a shop somewhere in the village. Who knows? Tonight’s dress was soft yellow mixed with little bits of blue.

  “What shall we eat tonight, Jeremy?” she asked, slightly out of breath, which I thought was because she might have walked too fast, not wanting to keep me waiting. But that sounds too conceited.

  “I think our walk made me hungry,” she said.

  “Good! I’m starving too. Maurice says we should try the moist smoked ham with herbed sauerkraut and potatoes . . . and he suggests that we have a little white asparagus on the side, while it’s still in season.”

  “Oh, my! Can we share? I mean one order for two? Because I’ll never be able to eat a whole portion by myself, Jeremy. But that might not be enough for you?”

  “It will be, I promise. I had an extra scone at tea.”

  The four musicians walked in. I had been waiting for them and I was prepared.

  “Excuse me for one minute, Clara. I want to apologize to the musicians for my behavior last night.”

  I went up to each musician, including Madame Cho-prier, and laid it on thick. I told them I had lost my head—which of course was true—but I repeated the lie that I told Clara, that I just wanted to give the clients a little laugh. The musicians were very gracious, especially the cellist, whose name was Viktor.

  Before I left them, I told another lie. I walked up to the first violinist, Madame Choprier, and said: “I hope your sore throat is a little better tonight, Madame.” She blushed and looked away, but the other musicians smiled at my joke. They knew that I knew the truth.

  When I returned to our table, Clara said she thought it was very generous of me to apologize to them, but even as she spoke I could see that same question in her eyes: What was the real reason he acted so bizarrely?

  We sipped our Gutedel as we listened to a Mozart quartet. When our food arrived, Clara really dug in. I was surprised by how much she ate.

  “Clara, how about if you and I have another picnic tomorrow?” Before she could begin to answer, I plowed right on. “The kitchen said they’d be happy to pack us a light lunch—sandwiches or cold chicken, a little fruit and cheese—even some iced Gutedel with two glasses if we like. We’ll find a nice flat spot in the foothills, not too far away, spread a blanket, and watch the fawns looking to see if we’re going to give them a bite of our food.”

  Her eyes drifted off to some hidden place again.

  “Clara—it’s just a picnic. Please, do what you want.”

  “Will you play for me?” she asked.

  Now I was baffled. “Do you mean, play with you?” I asked.

  “No, play for me,” she said. “With a violin.”

  My heart melted when I realized the innocence of her request.

  “Yes, if I can find one,” I answered.

  FOURTEEN

  “I NEED A VIOLIN, DR. GROSS.”

  “Of course you do, my boy.”

  “No, I mean I need one now! Today! Do you know where I can rent one, or buy one?”

  Dr. Gross lavished one of his angelic smiles on me. “Do you know of Gerhardt Fleischer, the famous German violinist?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “No, of course not—Fleischer was a little before your time. He was here for several months, Mr. Webb, and he was so ill that I used to beg him to rest more, but he insisted on practicing every single day for three hours . . . until the day before he died. I have his violin, which I have taken good care of. You may borrow it, Mr. Webb, if you promise to take care of it, and not bow your head and teeth,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “I promise.”

  Dr. Gross disappeared for a few minutes and then returned with a violin case. He handed it to me.

  “I’ll take good care of it, Doctor. Thank you.”

  As I was walking out of his office, I stopped and said, “Oh, by the way—I think Mrs. Mulpas is getting much better, don’t you?”

  He looked at me without
a smile. “My dear fellow, Mrs. Mulpas is dying.”

  I stared at him like a wooden puppet.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” I asked.

  “I had hopes, Mr. Webb. I always have hopes. But the body doesn’t lie. She has a cancer in the stomach that we can’t remove. The only reason I tell you this information—which of course is very private—is because I know you have a great fondness for Clara, and I don’t want you to do anything foolish that might tax her strength too much.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Clara and I talk about everything. She’s stronger in the heart than anyone I know. I want her to enjoy herself as much as possible. The pain is going to come later. For now, I tell her—try to rest, eat good food, don’t tire your body.”

  I nodded my head up and down, understanding everything and nothing. We shook hands and I left.

  FIFTEEN

  OUR SECOND RENDEZVOUS

  In my left hand I carried a basket filled with food, knives, forks, wine, and glasses. In my right hand, which is stronger, I carried the violin case. Clara carried a blanket and two small cushions, which the hotel had given us so we wouldn’t have to sit on pebbles or branches.

  I found a path that the gentleman at Reception told me about. It led into the foothills, but not very far away, and then into the trees. I wanted to find a path that wasn’t well known, that other visitors wouldn’t be using, so we climbed for about eight or ten minutes into the forest, resting frequently. Each time I stopped I told Clara it was because my arms were getting tired from carrying everything.

  We found a tiny plateau of soft grass, surrounded by trees, which looked ideal. The sun filtered lightly through the branches and leaves, and there was also a small brook that ran nearby.