/ ALMA MAHLER WERFEL* sti | And the ie Pe dae va | > a arch, 4.$5.95 ALMA MAHLER WERFEL WITH FE, B. ASHTON And ihe Bridge MORIES OF A LIFETIME To become a legend in one’s own time isa role granted to few. Seldom is the role played by a woman, And 1 ever has it been played by a woman like Alma Mahler Werfel. The daughter of Emil Schindler, esteemed painter to the Austro-Hun- garian court, Alma Schindler was often called “the most beautiful girl in Vienna.” Married to the world-famous composer and conductor Gustav Mah- ler at the age of twenty-two, she left an old world of gracious but conven- tional traditions to enter a new one of turbulence, passion, and genius. It was a world she would never leave. Few women have been as deeply in- volved with famous men. Four years (Continued on back flap) a tiALSO BY ALMA MAHLER WERFEL Gustav Mahler: Memories and LettersALMA MAHLER WERFEL the Bind e in collaboration with E. B. Ashton 1S “Theres land of the living Ov a: and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.” =Thornton Wilder The Bridge of San Luis Rey© 1958 ny ALMA MAHLER WERFEL AND F. B. ASHTON All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any mechanical means, including mimeograph and tape recorder, without permission in writing from the publisher. first edition LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 58-5923 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICAONE Two THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN EPILOGUE INDEX Contents Tradition’s Child 3 Genius in Wedlock 22 Four Seasons 37 Passion and Refuge 62 Love 88 The Diary of Franz Werfel 102 Revolution 123 Music Heard So Deeply 146 A House in Venice 167 For Better or Worse 189 The Last Years of Austria 214 Flight 241 Journey's End 270 And the Bridge Is Love 294 309,Alma SchindlerFather's studio Schindler statue, Vienna Plankenberg ManorAdolescent Dedicated to Alexander von Zemilinski DebutanteWith Gustav Mahler in Rome Mabler at the Opera Anna (“Gucki”)Maller and Gucki, Toblach, 1909 “Gustav Mahler” by Auguste Rodin The last voyageHans Pfitzner “Facing life” és ’“Portrait of a Woman’ by Oskar Kokoschka (1913, Coll. Alma Mahler Werfel)Walter Gropius Semmering, 1917 Haus Mabler, Breitenstein on SemmeringWith Franz Werfel Werfel,me 1 iT] Qui ‘mM Ei Hans Pfitzner and Max Brod Alban Berg Werfel, Alban and Helene Berg Anna in Sicily, 0925Anna Anna Mabler with uncompleted relief sculpture of her fatherrnal Road”—Kurt Weill, ‘erfel, and Max Reinhardt ‘ork Visiting a Hollywood studio Tusculum in Beverly Hillstd v dénnr . (tae dm APRS ID Vie (th deh (ithe, fab ith Diese wari Ta, Boum meth dserkel dies tari « d bheicbir — ot leider, & hitim vm Gi bad am Geist cm Tobie a Meo coer Aaseecestand 071! peleoigst 0? (a ID Andi Ue Oe me. Tend tie es oe seal me fe dumm piber frim, Fromm aed iv? ahh yi gum jiocnachvelee blige Tees : bee PON pane proce . i ee ot a 1, v 2 0 . ‘oy eben anne a olehes Solwana, om Fin Ty oe bef hes ee . ape Ot dad gen 6 a Les aoa it Fifatones 0d OF ane a Franz Werfel’s last poemBruno Walter, Alma Mabler Werfel, Eugene Ormandy, Dorothy Kirsten, Igor Stravinsky “Arnold Schonberg” by Anna Mahler“Love story an folded paper” —six fans painted by Oskar Kokoschka for Alma Mabler, 1913-14 Alma Mahler WerfelAND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE 1oe ONE Traditions Child An episode in the summer of 1915 was the first cause of an up- heaval in my life, I sat in a horse-drawn cab, waiting, wearying as the sunlight poured down on me, until a bookseller’s cart passed by and I revived at once. I bought the latest issue of a monthly called Die Weissen Blatter, and when I opened it I saw a poem: “Man Aware” (Der Erkennende) by Franz Werfel. One thing I know: [Eines weiss ich, Nothing is mine to own; Nie und nichts wird mein; T possess alone Mein Besitz allein: is awareness . . Das zu erkennen . . .] About Werfel I knew little more than that he was at the front. “One thing know . . .” The poem engulfed me. It has remained one of the loveliest in my peo. I was spellbound, a prey to the soul of Franz Werfel, whom I did not know. At that moment I was mentally unfaithful to an admirable and quite unsuspecting man. Walter Gropius and I had been married only a short time, but when he rejoined me in the cab he found a changed woman, whose transformation he could not ex- lain. : I set the poem to music, arbitrarily concluding halfway through the second stanza. Werfel himself later substituted my 34 AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE ending for his, so that in all new editions the poem closes on its strongest note: “. . . this awareness!” From childhood on I had been yearning for “the blue sky on earth” and I found it in music. T am the daughter of an artistic tradition. My father, Emil J. Schindler, was the foremost cape painter of the Austrian Empire—and always in debt, as befits a person of genius. He came from old patrician stock and was my shining idol. My father’s father died young, of tuberculosis. When he saw there was no hope left, he hired a four-in-hand coach and took his beautiful young wife for a ride through Italy and Switzer- land. And when he felt the end coming he had her dress in her gayest evening gown and sit in it by his bedside until he died. Her portrait still hangs in the Gallery of Beauties of the Vienna Hofburg. J My father’s uncle, Alexander Schindler, wrote novels and legal treatises under an aristocratic pseudonym. He played a major role in old Austria, served in parliament, and—to cite but one of his innovations that was widely felt—abolished the lash. Alexander Schindler was a natural spendthrift. Creditors forced him to flee by night from Leopoldskron, his heavily mortgaged castle, but he turned even this ignominious departure into a pageant: his many servants, wearing silk knee breeches, had to escort him out in a torchlight parade. (Many years later, Max Reinhardt, the great modernizer of the European stage, met a similar fate at Leopoldskron; but our times are less romantic, and Reinhardt’s exit coincided with the start of World War II, which ruined everyone and everything. Today the castle houses a school that explains America to European students.) My father as a young man had shared a studio with Hans Makart. Makart was a Renaissance-type artist, but without the grandeur of the men of that age. He gave the most lavish parties, inviting the loveliest women and dressing them in his genuine Renaissance costumes. Rose garlands trailed from the ballroom ceiling, Liszt played through the nights, the choicest wines flowed, behind each chair stood a page clad in velvet, and so forth to the limits of splendor and imagination.j j me Tradition’s Child 5 There were cracks in the soles of my father’s one pair of shoes, but because they were unpaid for, he could not order new ones. What to do? He hired a cab for a month, to save wear, and “stretch” the shoes over the weeks it would take him to complete a picture. Thus he floundered through the world of affairs, get- ting along somehow, for every now and then he did manage a sale. If only his debts had not kept mounting in the meantime! One ornament of my father’s odd way of life at the time was a page boy, who emptied his pockets every night, stealing what little money he found. My father knew about it but did not mind —“because the lad was so handsome.” Later, of course, when my mother took charge and saw what the lad had been up to, he was fired on the spot. Marriage brought a narrowness into my father’s life. True, he lived in a castle and called a park with baroque statuary his own, but in the depths of his soul he harbored unfulfilled longings for the beauty he sought to infuse into this crude, workaday world. My mother, a product of the middle class of Hamburg, had to catch up rationally with all that was in my father’s blood. Not until after his death would she grasp his importance. The struggle for our daily bread must have been hard on her, for all he knew was his art, and when he got tired of problems he would just lie down—fall asleep—or write. One of his pupils described his first impression of our home: A fairly big room, light streaming through the windows, an 18th- century highboy, and in a huge armchair an exquisitely beautiful old lady with silvery curls, reading fairy tales to two children, blonde and brunette: Schindler’s mother with her grandchildren. The winter of 1884 brought Schindler the fulfillment of his most secret, unuttered, hardly acknowledged wish. He is a born aristo- erat, lived as a youth with his uncle in Leopoldskron Castle—and has now been returned by chance to another castle, to live like a feudal lord, on practically nothing. we In an old park beyond the Vienna Woods—similar to the formal gardens he dreamed about—stands an old manor house belonging to the estate of Prince Karl Liechtenstein. A eee isth-century building, two stories high and topped by a gabled roof. A baroque, onion-tip clock tower adorns the facade. Only a few tracés of6 AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE planning remain visible in the three-acre park, chiefly a splendid baroque gate flanked by century-old lindens, Roundabout, other huge linden and plane trees; an ‘avenue of old walnuts; vineyards running uphill behind the house; in front and below, the park is enclosed by a tiny village. There is a charming variety in the sur- roundings of Plankenberg Manor: rolling hills, broad vistas, forests and fields, poplar-lined country lanes, a quiet brook, Whoever lives on the manor is lord of the countryside. On one of our strolls we meet a peasant, and Alma indignantly asks her father: “Daddy, what's that man doing in our woods?” I lived apart, like a princess, amid the beauties of nature which my father extolled. To know and understand the Austrian land- scape, one needs but to see my father’s paintings. Most of my childhood was spent at Plankenberg Manor. For me it was full of beauty, legends, and dread. The house was said to be haunted, and we children lay trembling through many a night. Halfway up the great stairs there was an altar for which my father had found a wood-carved Virgin and some gilded baroque candelabra. The altar, decked with flowers, glistened at night. It was never used, of course; it was purely ornamental. When we children had to pass it after dark we shuddered and ran. My father was profoundly musical. He had a magnificent tenor voice and sang Schumann lieder, for example, quite proficiently. His conversation was fascinating and never commonplace. I used to spend hours in his studio, standing and staring at the revela- tions of the hand that led the brush. I dreamed of wealth, merely in order to smooth the paths of creative personalities. I wished for a great Italian garden filled with many white studios; I wished to invite outstanding men there—to live for their art alone, with- ‘out mundane worries—and never to show myself. I loved trail- ing velvet gowns, and I wanted to be rowed in gondolas with velvet draperies floating astern. It was the dross of the Makart age in me. My father always took me seriously. One day he called me and my sister into his studio to tell us the story of Goethe's Faust. We were seven and eight years old and wept, not know- ing why. When we were all enraptured, he gave us the book.Tradition’s Child 9 “This is the most beautiful book in the world,” he said. “Read it. Keep it.” We went and read until my mother came and had a fit. There followed violent arguments between our parents; frequently their guests got into the fights, and we children listened behind closed doors, with bated breath. In the end the so-called sensible side won, as usual. But in my mind a fixed idea remained: I had to get the Faust back! Our whole upbringing was like this, all experiment and no sys- tem. In our early years we were taught at home—by nasty tutors who were dismissed as fast as my father found they were tor- turing us, by nice ones who were ineffectual, and for one winter, on Corfu, by my mother, who was so inept that she gave us the entire multiplication table to learn by heart in a day. The end of the winter saw her under medical care for a throat ailment, con- tracted as a result of yelling at us. I was a nervous child, fairly bright, with the typical hop-skip-and-jump brains of precocity. But I could not think anything through, was never able to keep a date in mind, and took no interest in anything but music. I did have one great travel experience, when my father was commissioned to make pen-and-ink drawings of all the Adriatic coastal towns in Dalmatia for Crown Prince Rudolf’s work, The Austro-Hungarian Monarchy in Word and Pictures. On a freighter, which had to stop everywhere until my father’s work was done, we went first to Ragusa, where we spent half the win- ter; then, again by freighter, we continued to Spizza, the south- ernmost Austrian port, and on to the Greek island of Corfu, for the second half. Ragusa, Lacroma—it all remains in my memory like a dream paradise. On Corfu, where Papa no longer had to work to order, we soon left the town for a small stone villa at San Teodoro, on a lonely mountaintop. There, at last, he painted beautiful pictures for his own enjoyment, My mother, too, came into her own then, for without her foresight we should not have been able to stay. There was no lighting in the house, but our piles of luggage (carried because Mother always set up housekeeping everywhere) contained some oil lamps that were promptly put into use. Our landlord was a Greek and infinitely primitive. Frequently, we children were in8 AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE danger of our lives, for the Greek children loathed strangers and threw rocks at us whenever they caught us alone. Someone— Mother, Papa, or his pupil, Carl Moll—had to watch us all the time. We had a pianino sent up from the town of Corfu, and there, at the age of nine, I began to compose and to write down my own music, As the only musician in the house, I could find my way by myself, without being pushed. About this time my father’s personality and genius endeared him to an archduke—Johann Orth, who later renounced his im- perial rank—and won him a bid to join His Highness on a jor through Dalmatia and Bucovina. It was a grand cavalcade that set out to explore a fairyland and often found no decent food for days. Back home, Johann Orth and Papa kept up an intimate correspondence in which the archduke would express himself quite frankly about the imperial house. He was so enthusiastic about my father that Crown Prince Rudolf, who was then plan- ning a trip to the Orient, asked the painter to go along. Papa was delighted with the prospect of new scenes; my mother was just packing his trunks when somebody burst in: “There’s been an accident—the crown prince is dead!” The dream was over before it had begun. This was the tragedy of Mayerling, which has done so much for the film and tele- vision writers of today. In 1889, when it happened, it marked the beginning of the end for the Hapsburg monarchy in Austria, for Rudolf had been a man of stature and promise, and what came after him was mediocre. Then, in the summer of 1892, my father died on the first pleas- ure trip he could afford after his debts were paid off. Youthful at fifty, he was stricken without warning, and the severity of his condition baffled everyone. He came from Munich, where his host, Prince Regent Luitpold of Bavaria, an old friend and in- veterate practical joker, had suddenly turned a hidden cascade on his guests. Luitpold thought it was great fun to see them tumble, but the impact of the crashing water made an old appendix ail- ment of Papa’s acute. The doctors, as so often, fumbled in the dark. An immediate operation might have saved him; instead, they blithely allowed him to travel to Hamburg, to join us andTradition’s Child 9 Carl Moll, who had come with us from Vienna, and to continue to the North Sea island of Sylt. There, one day, we were called out of the restaurant. I knew instinctively that Papa was dead. In a howling wind we ran across the dunes, I sobbing loudly all the way. Moll met us at our cottage: “Children, you’ve no father any more!” We were locked in a room. But somebody forgot one of the doors, so we sneaked out and found Papa lying in a wooden box on the floor of the next room, He was beautiful. He looked like a fine wax image, noble as a Greek statue. We felt no horror. I was astonished only by the smallness of this man who had been my father, now that I saw him in his coffin. We traveled home and took him with us, for burial in Vienna. Hamburg was under a cholera quarantine, so the coffin was con- cealed inside a piano box and thus crossed the border unnoticed. What followed has slipped my memory. I was not fully aware of all that happened. I was proud of Papa’s fine, gold-embroidered pall, and at the cemetery I was bothered by my mother’s crying. Bue I grew more and more conscious of having lost my guide. He had been my cynosure—and no one had known. All I did had been to please him. All my ambition and vanity had been satisfied by a twinkle of his understanding eyes. Death by the seashore, the cumbersome transport to Vienna, the Nordic gray, stormy hopelessness of nature on Sylt—all this, for me, has remained as part of the indelible memory of my father. Somewhat later a handsome, romantic monument to him was raised in the Vienna Stadtpark. The unveiling—this coming-to- life in marble of my father’s features, along with the sudden prominence of my small self—impressed me so much that I al- most fainted at the close of the ceremonies. I was thirteen years old when my father died. At fifteen I began to build a library. My mother did not have much time for me, thank heaven, and I could go out by myself. My wide cape concealed the children’s books I used to lug to a secondhand bookstore to exchange for modern literature. Soon Thad a nice collection, of which no one was allowed to know.10 AND THE BRIDGE 18 LOVE At home the dominating influence was now that of Carl Moll, my father’s pupil—an eternal pupil, who spent his life and wasted his small talent shifting from teacher to teacher, however incom- patible, He used me to test his skill as an educator, but all he reaped was hatred. It was not in him to be my guide. He looked like a medieval wood carving of St. Joseph, doted on old paint- ings, and most obnoxiously disturbed the tenor of my ways. In those years of adolescence I grew completely away from my surroundings. I became indifferent to them, engrossed in music. I studied counterpoint with a blind organist, raced through musical literature, and kept screaming Wagner parts un- til my beautiful mezzo-soprano had gone to pieces. I lived in a music miracle of my own making. I was tantalized by all things mystical, fascinated by words such as “humans at play in the locks of the deity”—a phrase my father had coined, watching the bathers on the beach and in the surf at Sylt. I often used this and other lovely expressions I had picked up from him, but no one paid me heed. ~ My immediate environment was so prosaic I had to find out everything by myself. With my father in mind, I looked for help in maturing to older, knowledgeable men of our artists’ circle—to Max Burckhard, for instance, the director of the Burgtheater. He taught me to read, in a deeper sense. Once, for Christmas, he sent me by two porters huge laundry baskets full of books: all the classics, in the finest editions. He was the first man to take an interest in my mercurial mind. As a man, though, he was not my type. i ‘was seventeen and very innocent; people called me beautiful; I read a great deal; I composed. Burckhard was forty-two, and his ardor sickened me. On my side, our relationship lacked any erotic tinge. We had some odd scenes when I was first intrigued by his strong masculinity, only to turn it aside with a heartless joke. This maddened him; he used to call me coquettish and disap- pear for a while. But he always came back, and the game would start all over. His vitality was immense. He bicycled, rowed, sailed, climbed the highest mountains; today he would be a pilot visiting the stratosphere, perhaps. He had a hunting lodge in the Alps, highTradition’s Child IL atop an almost inaccessible crag, where he spent his vacations fancying himself as his own master. The local guides and he would climb carrying the same loads in their heavy rucksacks. He always took books, canned food, candles, but no change of clothes. Thus he lived for weeks, alone with himself and na- ture, with only deer and chamois for company, godless but lordly. He was his own god, To be able to bear such loneliness one must either have a god or be one. “Death,” he said, “does not exist. It’s a human invention.” Or: “T'd rather be with enemies than with friends. An enemy, at least, one dare spout malice to your face, as friends are so fond of loing.” Once, he told me an amusing story about how he came to head the Burgtheater. He had heard by chance that he was in the government files as “Chief Presumptive of the Land Credit Insti- tute”—he, who was a poet, not a money expert! In desperation at this bureaucratic lapse he promptly took a cab to the villa of Katharina Schratt, the Burgtheater star who was the mistress of Emperor Franz Josef. La Schratt, who liked Burckhard, sent hint” right back to a famous Vienna pastry shop, to order some nut and poppy-seed crescents. “Bring them here when they're ready,” she said. “The emperor is coming to dinner, they're his favorite dish. When he gets that, he'll sign anything. Just imagine such a silly blunder!” So, on the very next day, the Burgtheater got its new director, the man who introduced Ibsen and Hauptmann to Vienna—over the protests of the court—as well as the greatest Viennese actors of the period. He and I used to go bicycling together, trailed by a bulky landau in which my mother kept watch over Burck- hard’s food supply: a few bottles of French vintage champagne, partridges, pineapples—whatever was good and, accordingly, ex- pensive. It was all perfectly innocent, for, as I said before, he ‘was not my type. When I was eighteen and my father had been dead five years, my mother married Carl Moll. The poor woman, I thought. There she went and married a pendulum, and my father had been the whole clock! Moll was one of a group of painters, sculptors, and architects12 AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE who broke with the old Vienna Art Institute to found the “Sezession,” which absorbed our thoughts and emotions for a long time. The first meetings of the insurgents took place in the house of my new stepfather, and their first president was Gustav Klimt, a painter of Byzantine eee who sharpened and deep- ened the “eyesight” I had learned from Papa. I was still quite childish when I met him at those secret sessions; he was the most gifted of them all, already famous at thirty-five, and strikingly good-looking. His looks and my young charm, his genius and my talent, our common, deeply vital musicality, all helped to at- tune us to each other. My ignorance in matters of love was ap- palling, and he felt and found my every sensitive spot, He was tied down a hundredfold, to women, children, sisters, who turned into enemies for love of him. And yet he pursued me to Italy, where I was traveling with my so-called family in 1897. Wherever we stayed, Klimt would show up looking for me. At Jast, in Genoa, my mother cruelly killed our romance. Day after day she broke her word of honor, studied the stammerings in my diary, and thus kept track of the stations of my love. And in Genoa—oh, horrors!—she read that Klimt had kissed me. Gustav Klimt was forbidden to speak to me. In Venice, in the bustle of the Piazza San Marco, we finally saw each other again. The crowd concealed us and his hasty whispers of love, his vows to rid himself of everything and come for me, his commandin; request to wait for him, my fear of Moll’s eye. Then the family and I left for Vienna, and for months I was on the verge of sui- cide. ‘What madness of parents, to presume to play Providence, simply separating us whenever things do not seem safe enough! All young people will understand what I mean, even though their problems now are not like ours were then. Our lives were so hemmed in and twisted by reservations that the concord, when it came, would only make us yawn. Embittered, I took up the threads of life again. Klimt kept trying to approach me, but I was deaf to all pleas to visit his studio. I still trembled when I saw him, but I observed the moral code of the time. My first marvel of love was wrecked by myTradition’s Child 13 so-called “breeding,” which made me think I had “something of value” to shield. I began to compose again, to seek some creative outlet for my grief. From one day to the next I would compose a whole move- ment of a sonata. I lived only for my work, and withdrew from all social activities, though I could have been queen of every ball I chose. Eventually I found the man to lead my frenzied tune-smithing into serious paths. Alexander von Zemlinsky was one of the finest musicians and a magnificent teacher. When I went to him for lessons—usually he came to our house—I often met his favorite student, Arnold Schonberg. “He’ll be the talk of the world some- day,” said Zemlinsky. And that is exactly what Schénberg, the composer, has become, aside from teaching and influencing others, such as Alban Berg, Anton von Webern, Ernst Krenek. To this entire musical generation Zemlinsky was the teacher par excellence. His technical brilliance was unique. He could take a little theme, take it mentally in hand, so to speak, squeeze it, and form it into countless variations. That he is not known as the master of our time, I thought, must be due to his rickety physique. A low shrub, no matter how precious, cannot grow into a tall tree, He was a hideous gnome. Short, chinless, toothless, always with the coffechouse smell on him, unwashed—and yet the keen- ness and strength of his mind made him tremendously attractive. The hours flew when we were working together. After the successful opening of his opera Once upon a Time, Zemlinsky was in high spirits. Gustav Mahler, the director of the Court Opera House, had produced the work with loving care, personally revising the libretto and the music. Zemlinsky was big enough to admit the debt. We used to gossip maliciously about people, but this time we suddenly looked at each other and re- solved to drink a toast to someone we could think no evil of. “Mahler!” we cried in unison, This was the beginning of our love. To me it was a time of absolute music. He played Tristan for me, I leaned on the piano, my knees buckled, we sank into each other's arms. [ was staying14 AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE with friends at the time, and their ghastly Turkish parlor almost saw me fall—almost, for I was too much of a coward to take the penultimate step. I believed in a virginal purity in need of preser- vation. It was not merely a trait of the period, it was a trait of mine. My old-fashioned upbringing and my mother’s daily ser mons had strapped me into a mental chastity belt. Zemlinsky and I embraced, that was all. I am still glad we did not go farther. That time was probably the happiest, most carefree in my life. In the fall of roo1 IL was asked to a party at the house of Berta Zuckerkandl, the wife of a famous anatomist. Her sister, married and living in France, was in town for a visit, and Gustav Mahler, usually averse to strangers, had agreed to come because of her. Among the others invited were Klimt, my childhood crush, and Burckhard, my mentor; I was going to be among friends. I ac- cepted and went, feeling curiously apprehensive.* ‘Curiously, too, Mahler noticed me at once—not just my face, but my nervous, tart way of speaking. For a long time he ex- amined me through his glasses. At dinner I sat between Klimt and Burckhard; we made a frivolous trio and laughed a good deal. Mahler, from the far end of the table, kept looking and listening our way. At last he burst out: “Can’t we all get in on the fun?” His poor neighbor, the lady from Paris, was sadly neglected that evening. Meanwhile, a late guest had come from a violin concert and started raving about it, His ardor was very obtrusive, and when. he asked me whether I had heard the virtuoso, I said, “I don’t care for solo recitals.” “Neither do I,” Mahler said from the far end of the table. After dinner the company split into smaller groups. There was talk about the relativity of beauty, and Mahler maintained that the face of Socrates was beautiful. I agreed and proceeded to call Alexander yon Zemlinsky beautiful. Mahler, with a shrug, said this was going pretty far, and I became pugnacious and took up the cudgels for my teacher. * Much of the text from here to the death of Mahler has been condensed and newly translated from Alma Mahler Werfel’s Gustav Mabler: Erinnerun- gen und Briefe, published in 1946 by The Viking Press as Gustav Mabler: Memories and Letters,Tradition’s Child 1s “Speaking of Zemlinsky,” I said, “didn’t you promise to pro- duce his Golden Heart ballet? Why don’t you?” “Because I don’t understand it,” Mahler shot back. The story of the ballet was a little confused in its symbolism, but I happened to know it inside out. I said I would tell him the contents and explain the meaning, He smiled. “I’m curious.” “But not,” I added, “until you have explained the meaning of The Bride of Korea.” This indescribably confused and stupid ballet was a fixture of the Viennese repertoire. Mahler guffawed, baring all his gleam- ing teeth, and inquired about my studies. When he heard I was a composition student of Zemlinsky’s, he asked me to bring him some of the things I had done. We had moved out of the group, or the others had withdrawn from us. We stood in the kind of vacuum that instantly envelops people who have found each other. I promised to come to the Opera sometime, when I had “something good.” With a mock- ing smile that seemed to say, “I can’t wait that long,” he asked me to come next morning for a rehearsal of Tales of Hoffmann; our hostess and her sister would be there, too. I wavered—I still had an assignment for Zemlinsky to finish—but the lure was too great. I accepted. Then he offered to walk home with me, and I declined. I did not feel like walking. It was late at night, and I was tired. “But you'll come to the Opera?” Hesitantly, I said yes. “Word of honor?” The evening was over. I felt depressed and sure of having caused all sorts of misunderstandings. An unfortunate, innate shyness never let me be myself with strangers; either I lapsed into bewildered silence or I put up a false, brazen front, as | had that night. My stepfather and I discussed my new acquaintance at length and were not wholly pleased. Mahler had been talking as to a mass meeting: “Yes, but I tell you,” and so forth. You felt that years of power and a helplessly submissive retinue had put this man on a road that was lonely and getting lonelier. I did not16 AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE think much about this impression at the time, but it probably flattered me that he had concerned himself with me alone. Early next morning I called for Frau Zuckerkandl and her sis- ter. At the Opera, Mahler was already waiting impatiently. He helped me out of my coat, rudely neglecting to do the same for the two ladies. With awkward gestures, my coat still over his arm, he invited us to step into his office. The women, both ap- parently insensitive to the submerged spiritual vibrations in the place, began to harangue him, while I stood by the piano rum- maging in his music sheets. I was quite incapable of making small talk. Mahler kept stealing glances at me; not quite without malice, I disdained to rescue him. I was young, reckless, unim- pressed by glamour and position. The one thing that would have humbled me was Mahler’s inner importance, which I still failed to see. Even so, my merry nonchalance was slightly shaken by a mysterious respect. “How did you sleep, Fraulein Schindler?” he asked me across the room. “Fine. Why not?” “I didn’t sleep a wink all night,” he said, and I gave some silly answer which I am glad to have forgotten. I did not yet realize how much he liked me. I was impressed, but my work with Zemlinsky interested me more. The next day’s mail brought me a beautiful, unsigned poem. My mother took it out of my hand, wondering severely about the sender. My guess that it might be Mahler made her laugh; men like Mahler did not write love poems to unknown girls. Someone was joshing me, said my mother. I walked the streets as in a dream. Somehow I was sure that the poem was Mahler’s; though not in love with him, I could think of nothing else. Two weeks later, Mother and I went to hear Orpheus at the Opera. I soon saw Mahler—which was no trick; any operagoer knew the director’s box. What was more remarkable was that he also saw me at once and began a flirta- tion entirely out of line with his usual solemnity. During the intermission he suddenly confronted us in theTradition’s Child 17 lobby, asking to be introduced to my mother. He told her about the walks he liked to take in our neighborhood. “Why don’t you call some day?” Mama suggested. He was delighted. “When? Soon?” “I suppose you'll have to set the date,” said my mother. We had stepped into his office again, to avoid the many curious eyes, and he consulted his schedule. Next Saturday was found to be mutually agreeable. I was asked whether I was free, and though Thad a counterpoint lesson that day, I promised to change it. Afterward, Mother and I met Moll and Burckhard at a restaurant and she innocently told them of our experience with Mahler. Moll blew up. “You've let this roué take you into his office, with a young girl?” Mahler, the ascetic, had the reputation of a rake, a corrupter of all the young females in his ensemble. Actually, he was a child and afraid of women. It took me, a silly, inexperienced girl, to bring down his guard. Max Burckhard, the expert on men and affairs, realized the truth that mystified Mahler and me. “He was pretty wild about you the other night,” he said. I said I had not noticed. “Well, what will you do if he proposes?” “Accept,” I said calmly. Tadvanced my Saturday counterpoint lesson to Thursday. On Thursday I was sitting through it, absent-mindedly, when our maid rushed in: “Gustav Mahler is here!” He was popular even in the servants’ quarters. My counterpoint studies ended then and there. We had just moved into our new house and my books were still piled all over my room, waiting to be arranged on shelves. Mahler walked around erate them. On the whole he seemed pleased with my taste, though my complete edition of Nietzsche’s works shocked him. There was a fire going in the fireplace, and he abruptly asked me to feed Nietzsche to the flames. T refused. If he was right about those books, I said, he could convince me easily enough; it would be more to his credit to let them stay, unread, than to have me burn them now and want them later. Mahler looked annoyed, but after a while he sug- gested that we take a walk together. In the hall we ran into my18 AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE mother, who asked him to dinner in her merry way: “We'll have paprika chicken, and Burekhard. Won't you stay?” “T don’t like either one,” said Mahler. “Just the same, I’ll stay.” We walked out into the crackling snow. Side by side, strangers and yet so close, we went down to Dobling, where he wished to call home from the public phone at the post office. Every few minutes his shoclaces came untied and obliged him to find a firm stand to retie them. His childlike clumsiness was touching. At the post office it turned out that he did not know his own telephone number. He had to call the Opera, and someone there had to call up his home and tell his sister that he was not going to be home for dinner. No such thing had ever happened in their nine years of living together, Silently we climbed the hill again. All at once he started talking. “It’s not so simple to marry a man like me. I’m quite free; | have to be. I can assume no material obligations. My job with the Opera is from day to day.” I felt very ill at ease. Without consulting me, he dictated his will, his rules of living! “To me that is only natural,” I said after a pause. “Don’t forget, I am an artist’s daughter. I’ve always lived among artists; I feel like an artist. I've never thought differently in these matters.” I still remember how the snow glistened under each lamppost, how we pointed out this fairy-tale beauty to each other, with- out a word. We did not talk much the rest of the way. Mahler seemed gay and at peace. As by a tacit agreement, we went straight to my room. He kissed me and started talking of an early wedding, as if it were a matter of course. The few words on our way up had settled everything, hadn’t they? Why wait? _ And I-I kept silent. In a state of curious enchantment we went down to join the others. Burekhard had come, and so had an- other guest, an architect who rather liked me and never came to our house again, after this evening of elemental force. Mahler dazzled us with the magic of his mind, We argued about Schiller, a poet he loved and I disliked at the time; he knew half of him by heart and was so scintillatingly ebullient that I-who had al- lowed myself to be kissed without really wanting to, who had agreed to a wedding date without considering my decision toTradition’s Child 19 marry—knew for a certainty that everything was right and good and that I no longer wished to live without him. This, I felt, was the man to mold my life. “Others are vulgar enough to give rings to each other,” he told me. “I’m sure you do not want that any more than I do?” [ replied at once that such a custom struck me as idiotic. In December, he went on a concert tour to Dresden and Ber- lin. He wrote me often, racking his brains and mine and finally asking me to ask my mother for my hand in his behalf—since he desired to be welcomed as a son on his return. Before this re- turn, however, we had our first major conflict. I once wrote more briefly than usual, explaining that I still had to work on a composition, and Mahler was outraged. Nothing in the world was to mean more to me than writing to him; he considered the marriage of Robert and Clara Schumann “ridiculous,” for instance. He sent me a long letter with the demand that I in- stantly give up my music and live for his alone. I cried all night. My mother heard me, came into my room, and quite seriously urged me to give up Mahler. Had she taken his side, she might have stiffened my opposition; as it was, her unconditional loyalty to me brought me to my senses. After all, I wanted him. I calmed down and wrote him a letter promising what he wanted me to promise. And I have kept my word. His servant, Mahler had written, would call for my reply be- fore we saw each other again. In my excitement I ran into the street to give my letter to the messenger. He also had one for me: apparently worried about my reaction to the first, Mahler had moderated his demands. In the afternoon he came himself, happy, confident, and so sweet that for the moment our skies were cloudless. They did not stay cloudless. I buried my dream, and perhaps it was better so; I have been privileged to see the realization of my creative talent, what there was of it, in greater brains than mine. And yet, somewhere in me a wound kept smarting. . . . “When Mahler came into the room,” one of our friends told me later, “you were suddenly still as a sea that oil has been. poured on.” Only my stepfather, Moll, was without an inkling. “Look20 AND THE BRIDGE IS LOVE here, Alma,” he said to me, “I think Mahler is interested in you. We must talk about that.” I was sitting on the piano stool, and I wheeled and stared at him. “Interested”! Was that really all he had seen? He went on talking. “Of course, he’s not exactly what I would have wished for you. He’s old, and in debt, as far as I know, and his health isn’t too good. He’s certainly no beauty, He composes, too, and it isn’t supposed to amount to much.” I laughed so hard that he shook his head and left, still without an inkling. In January, someone we had confided in leaked our secret to the papers. The “engagement” burst into the headlines on a day when we were at the Opera. Mahler conducted. I was too wor- ried and excited to see or hear a thing; I was ashamed to be seen in the streets, somehow, feeling all eyes upon me. The applause after Mahler's appearance lasted for minutes. He had to turn and bow again and again. It was like an engagement congratulation from the audience. As the wedding drew nearer, he had to go to a mountain resort for a few days to recuperate. He sometimes did this in midwinter. He was nervous and sick and under fearful tension. One moment he wished for death, in the next for the craziest of lives. I had no wish but to sacrifice my happiness for his. He was then rehearsing his Fourth Symphony with the Vienna Philharmonic. It was the first time I had heard a work every day from the reading rehearsal on—a work that was new and strange to me at first, and that I had to listen to several more times before I was familiar with all its beauties. Thereafter I was to live with each of his works from its conception to the last time he conducted it, and those would be my most thrilling, most unforgettable hours. At the time, though, I was reluctant to take his word for his mu- sic, for ever since our engagement his tone had changed: from an adoring lover he had turned into a tutor, and my blind faith had shrunk in proportion. He explained the Fourth to me on a stroll along the Danube; it ought to be imagined like an old painting on a golden ground, he said, and I resented an archaizing that had no relation to our time. I could not see that he composed this wayTradition’s Child 21 because he was so naive—because he was a child, not a casuist, as one might think at first glance. The Fourth was given its premiére at a matinee concert. I did not feel well at all. People stared at me as Mahler's fiancée until I thought I could not stand it any longer. My ears rang so, I scarcely heard the music. In the intermission an old family ac- quaintance, the president of the Society of the Friends of Music, waved to me from the director's box. I waved back, happy to see a familiar face, and the intermission was not over before some of Mahler’s watchful “friends” had informed him that I had been flirting all through the concert. Afterward his friends ignored me, and he treated me as a mis- ereant. The diva who had sung the vocal lead at the concert—she had spent years running after him and had not given up hope— lay draped over a couch in the artists’ room backstage, feigning a faint. Mahler bustled about her, begging her not to overstrain herself on his account, and thanked her over and over. I felt as though a hammer had hit me on the head. But we went home alone, and the pack vanished from our minds. We had a long talk; by the time we reached his house we were blissfully, inseparably reunited. It had been the last attack on me. On March 9, 1902, we were married in the Church of St. Charles Borromeo. Mahler came on foot, wearing rubbers because it was raining hard; his sister, my mother, and I arrived in a cab. We were all alone in the church with our witnesses, Carl Moll and the fiancé of Mahler’s sister. It was early in the day. At the moment for kneeling down, Mahler overlooked the hassock and dropped to the stone floor; short as he was, he had to get up and kneel all over again. Everyone smiled, even the priest. After the ceremony we six had a quiet lunch. Then Mahler and I took our leave, ae our trunks, and drove to the station to catch a train for it. Petersburg, where he was booked for three concerts. That evening—when the papers had said we were going to be married—St, Charles Borromeo’s reportedly drew quite a crowd.