J;.C.
GIRL IN MUNICH
SSIONS OF A. MUSIC STUDENT
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An American Girl in Munich
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A merican Girl in Munich
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Impressions of a Music Student
By
Mabel IV. Daniels
1908
Copyright , 1905,
By Little, Brown, and Company. All rights reserved
Published March, 1905
^printers
S. J. Takkhill <fc Co., Boston, U. S. A.
To Mutterchen
ixxxxXXXXXXXXXXXXxXXxxxXXXxxX:
An American Girl in
Munich
Munich, September 15, 1902 . Dear Cecilia: —
H
ERE I AM IN MY MECCA at last after a “ calm sea and pros- perous voyage.” Would that you were with me to share my pleasures, and, yes, I am selfish enough to add, my troubles, too, for you have such a magical power of charming away the latter that they seem but trifling vexations. Then I should so enjoy watching your delicious blue eyes open wide at these Germans and their queer customs, and oh ! how you would elevate the tip of your aristocratic nose at my box of a study, which, however, I consider the height of cosiness and comfort — from a German standpoint.
Lest by this last remark I ’ve imperilled my reputation for patriotism, let me hasten [5]
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to assure you that I am as far from adopt- ing a foreign point of view in my contem- plation of Man and the Universe as when we used to walk from college down to Har- vard Square and “ have out ” the discussions kindled by our four o’clock lecture. It’s only in the concrete things of life that I ’ve been forced to abandon my Bostonian, and therefore, of course, unimpeachable stand- ards. I have learned how unwise a thing it would be for me to say to a German land- lady, “ Show me an apartment with running water, steam heat, electric lights, and a porcelain bath-tub.” The poor bewildered creature would give me over at once into the hands of the omnipotent Folizei on the ground of insanity. But perhaps, after all, the best way of explaining myself is to fol- low the injunction in your letter : “ Begin at the beginning and tell me all about it.” Mutter chen and I arrived at Munich late in the evening, and went directly to a hotel near the station, where we slept soundly after our long trip. Early the next morning I set out to look for a permanent abode. On [6]
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my list were a number of well-recommended pensions , and I chose, naturally, the nearest at hand. It was not so easy to find as I had at first thought, for a German street has a queer fashion of changing its name every few blocks, so I deemed it wisest to inquire the way of a passer-by. Frankly, I had rather prided myself on my knowledge of the language, fondly imagining that I should have no trouble in understanding it or in making myself intelligible. With that sub- lime assurance born only of ignorance, I approached an honest-faced workman, and in a charmingly idiomatic sentence inquired the shortest way to Barer-strasse. He stared at me hard for a moment, and then burst into a flood of harsh-sounding words, not one of which fell I was puzzled for a moment, but, thinking I must have mistaken his nationality, I bowed my thanks and made my way to a policeman on the corner, who, by the bye, wears a gleaming helmet like those of the soldier chorus in “ Faust.” His answer was fully as incomprehensible as the other, and
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familiarly on my ear.
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I realized suddenly, with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, that this strange-sound- ing tongue must be the Bavarian dialect, and to understand it would require a totally new vocabulary. My enthusiasm was distinctly dampened, but I bravely opened the Red Book, which I had hitherto scorned, and un- folding the map of Munich to its full extent, I laboriously studied the tangle of black and red lines for a quarter of an hour before I found the desired street.
To reach the pension took but a short time, and I was relieved to discover that the landlady spoke north German and a little English. She was a large, red-cheeked, breezy person, and I felt very much like a small boat in tow of a big ship, as I meekly followed at her heels, while she showed me her vacant rooms, accompanying her smiles, bows, and gesticulations with a torrent of volubility. Finally she ushered me into a stuffy room, over-crowded with furniture, which she proudly called the 6l ‘ salon,” and pointing out as piece de resistance a decrepit, yellow-keyed piano, announced that it was
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“ for the use of the guests.” But the change, dear Cecilia, when I, like the stage villain, disclosed my identity ! The alluring smile melted in a trice ; the persuasive tones dis- appeared for the sharp rasp of the up-to-date business woman. I learned that a music student was regarded as an incubus, and shunned accordingly. Practice hours must be limited from, perhaps, nine- thirty to twelve and from four to seven. The only possible room was up four flights. Did I use the loud pedal much ? Did I play any “ pieces ” or only “ five-finger exercises ” ?
I cannot tell you all the questions she hurled at me. Suffice it to say, I left, down- cast and disheartened, only to meet practi- cally the same experience at each pension in turn. If there were already a music student in possession, that was the signal for me in- stantly to withdraw. If there were none, I found the rooms so undesirable, or practice hours so limited, that to remain was impossible.
At length I chanced to encounter, return- ing from her mornings work at the Pin-
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akothek, an art student whom I had met on the steamer, and she told me of a house where she thought there were no Musi- kers as yet. With an anxious heart I hurried up the narrow stairs, and interviewed the landlady, who proved to be a most genial creature. An hour later we had left the hotel and were ensconced as proud posses- sors of two adjoining rooms. The larger we use for a sleeping-room, and the smaller is dignified by the name of “ salon.” It is there that I am to work, and I have already succeeded in making it a little more home- like, by placing a screen to mitigate the de- pressing hideousness of the stove, and by setting out my photographs on desk and table. I have, too, tacked on the wall the Glee Club pictures and several snapshots which you took that memorable spring day in the Yard.
The pension itself is small. Indeed, the Frau Baronin — which is the title with which I am to address my landlady — tells me she seldom has more than ten guests in the house. She also says that most of her
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pensionnaires are German, for which we are grateful. I cannot understand why so many Americans come over here expecting to see something of the life and then establish themselves in one of those hotel-like board- ing-houses where the majority of the inmates speak only the English tongue.
The view from our windows is charming, for Maximilians-Platz is one of the most at- tractive spots in the city. As I look down on the waving trees and green lawns dotted with flowers, I forget that I am in the city at all. Leaning out on the ledge, with the warm breath of the wind on my fore- head, the twittering of birds and the soft plash of the fountain in my ears, the temp- tation to revel in all sorts of Arcadian dreams would be fairly irresistible, were not this idyllic illusion suddenly put to flight by the prosaic rumble of passing trams, which straightway brings me down to the com- monplace.
Really, I didn’t introduce that fountain just to create a romantic description, though it does sound rather like a daily theme.
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The best part of it is it’s real, — and the loveliest thing in Miinchen. You can read about it any day in the Red Book, and can discover countless pictures of it, but, believe me, nothing can give you an idea of its sound as one stands at a little distance. If I were to score it I should use the strings and a harp — the former divided and sub- divided as in the prelude to Lohengrin ; and then perhaps I ’d add a clarinet to give the effect of the birds’ call which mingles exquisitely with the plaintive music of the water.
Later.
My first appearance in German society was made last evening at seven-thirty. We were shown by Gretchen, our stout maid, into the dining-room, — a large room with a long table in the centre, about which a number of people were sitting. At one end was the Baron. He is very fat, very jovial, and very red of face. Precisely the same adjectives somewhat intensified might be applied to his wife, who sat opposite. When [12]
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neither of them was talking, they were laughing in the most infectious fashion imaginable. Isn’t it queer to picture the nobility of Europe as running boarding- houses ? I rather fancied I might see some of its members riding by in magnificent carriages, with high-stepping horses and clashing chains. I had pictured them as lounging against the cushions of their coaches with an air of bored grandeur, while somewhere in the background shone a glint of ermine, — but behold ! German aristoc- racy bursts upon me in my landlord and landlady.
Mutterchen was given the place of honor at the Baron’s right. I sat next. My vis- a-vis was a Frenchman whom I heard them addressing as “ Herr Doktor.” He was as typical of his nation as the Baron of his, and surveyed me critically from behind his gold- rimmed spectacles. It did not take me long to discover that he was intensely proud of his English, which was very bad. On his left sat Frau von Waldfel, a Hungarian, who monopolized the conversation in a high, [13]
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rasping voice, and whose red cheeks, prom- inent nose, and beady black eyes bespoke aggressiveness of the most aggressive type. Then came Karl, the Baron’s son, a stout, mischievous, frank-faced boy of fourteen, and on my right hand sat a blond-haired young man of about five and twenty, whom I should have acknowledged handsome had not his face been disfigured by several scars. I put him down at once as a student, for I had not travelled through Heidelberg on my way southward without learning some- thing of the duelling custom. We were eight in all.
The first meal in a strange pension is an awful ordeal. We both rather dreaded it, the more so as no one present spoke Eng- lish, except Frau von Waldfel, and we were rather timid about airing our knowledge of German. Then, too, every one seemed to converse so fast that the words fairly tum- bled over one another. Whenever I heard a totally strange phrase I soothed my pride by saying, sotto voce , to Mutterchen , “ Again that demoniacal dialect ! ” The Baron and [14]
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Baroness were extremely kind, however, and did their utmost to make us feel at home, while Frau von Waldfel was in her element. These foreigners do so appreciate an oppor- tunity to practise their English !
Between the continual making and con- suming of numberless small sandwiches, which she prepared in a marvellously skilful fashion from her bread and butter, she con- versed in the following manner, never paus- ing for a reply :
“ Have you been to Dresden or Hamburg or Berlin ? I don’t care for those cities at all. They ’re frightful. Why, they simply starve you ! Of course in Hamburg one does find good meat pie ; the only decent thing in Dresden is the pastry. But give me Vienna ! That ’s the city of Europe ! One can get most be-au-ti-ful things to eat there.”
Shades of the Sistine ! Fancy travelling through Europe “ for thy stomach’s sake ” ! Possibly, however, this is no more unworthy an object than that of an American girl whom I met yesterday. “ Like Munich ?
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I should rather say not. There isn’t one decent shop in the place ! ”
Just to think of all the articles they are writing at home to prove that we are fast developing an artistic sense !
Anything more inconvenient than the arrangement of meals would be hard to find — with the exception of breakfast. This is served when and where you want it and con- sists of rolls and coffee. It seems we are especially lucky inasmuch as we receive honey also “ without extra charge,” as the Baroness impressively added. At eleven o’clock comes the Zw cites Fr'uhstuck which I rather imagine I shall omit. At one occurs Mittagsessen , a pompous meal re- quiring at least an hour. At five every one has afternoon coffee and a bit of cake. I hear there are any number of beguiling out- door cafes where one can sit under the trees and hear good music. At seven-thirty your true son of Germany hungers yet again, and Abendessen (supper) is served. If, however, one wishes to attend any form of entertainment he must eat a cold supper [16]
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early, in a bare and deserted dining-room, for the opera and concerts generally begin at seven o’clock. Do not imagine, my dear, that the German can now go to bed satis- fied, for the Baroness assures me that he either sets out at once for a beer-hall and lingers over his stein all the evening, or about ten he has brought to his room such soporific things as cheese sandwiches, cold sausage, and, of course, the inevitable bever- age. It ’s simply impossible for people to be hungry here. They don’t have time to acquire an appetite.
Good night to you now, for it is growing late. I wonder what it will all be like, everything seems so strange now, and I feel as though I were a year’s journey from America. Well, I shall do my best to write you all that happens. My plan is to keep a musical journal ; that is, a record of all that occurs relating to my studies, and occasionally you won’t mind, will you, if I copy an item or two from that into your letters ? It will seem so much more as though I were talking to you if I scribble [17]
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down things from day to day and then send the whole off in a batch, instead of writing in the conventional way one generally does. There is a clock striking now. It must be that of the two-towered Frauenkirche which is so near. So this time really good night and angenehme Ruh\ which means “ a pleasant rest to you ! ”
September 19.
It was with a certain repressed excitement that I made my way toward Ainmiiller- strasse, at half-past eight this morning, to pay my first visit to Professor Thuille. My letters of introduction were clasped tightly in my hand, and I walked so rapidly that by the time I found myself on the landing be- fore his door, after climbing several flights of stairs, — you know every one lives in a Wohnung (apartment) here, and an elevator in a dwelling-house is an almost unheard-of luxury, — I was completely out of breath. It still lacked fifteen minutes of the ap- pointed time, so I had ample opportunity to regain my composure as I sat in the cosy re- [18]
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ception room into which the maid had ushered me. Behind the closed doors at the further end of the apartment I could hear a pupil playing a Beethoven sonata, and a man’s voice occasionally interrupting. I adjusted my hat for the twentieth time, smoothed my hair back over my ears, and endeavored to appear outwardly as if I were not at all in a flutter of expectation. Per- haps my excitement was increased by the remembrance of the impression I had made at supper last night, when I casually men- tioned that I had come to Munich to study composition with Professor Thuille. Every one became attentive immediately, and spoke in the highest terms of his genius as a com- poser. I felt not a little proud, and some- what uneasy, at the thought of meeting him.
“ Richard Strauss was a pupil of his,” said Herr Doktor, calmly, as he helped himself to a third piece of black bread. Thereupon I really trembled. So now, in order to quiet my nerves, I began to look about me
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The first thing which caught my eye was a landscape in vivid blues and greens, framed in massive and evidently costly style. From the inscription beneath I gathered that this creation was the gift of a grateful chorus to their “ beloved director, Ludwig Thuille.” Over the bookcase hung several giant laurel wreaths, their leaves now crisply yellowing. To these were attached brilliant, silver-let- tered ribbons which, as they floated flam- boyantly against the subdued gray of the wall-paper, proclaimed that these tokens, too, were the gifts of appreciative souls. The table near the door held a beautifully carved loving-cup of silver also bearing an inscrip- tion. Truly, gratitude must be the virtue par excellence of Germany !
If 1 had insensibly acquired an impression of ostentation from all this array of tributes — a common custom of every artist here, they tell me — this vanished the moment the door opened, for Professor Thuille and anything like ostentation are as far from one another as the poles. I was surprised to see a man so young in appearance, for I had [20]
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in some inexplicable way formed the idea that he was much older. My second thought was that I had never seen so charming and cordial a smile. Of course he shook hands, as all these people do, and hade me he seated while he opened the letters. He is short in stature, with sandy hair, and a long mustache curled up at the ends in true im- perial manner. His eyes, blue and kindly, looked straight and sympathetically at me. His face is deeply lined and shows tense sensitiveness in every feature. The rather strained expression vanishes, however, the moment he smiles. As he turned over my letters I noted that the fingers of his right hand were stained a deep yellow ; already the faint aroma of cigarette smoke had reached me. Intuitively I felt that these two things indicated one of his characteris- tics. I had happened on the Leitmotif \ as it were, of Thuille.
“ Ach ! das ist sehr nett!” (That is very nice !) he said, laying down the letters. “You know Herr Chadwick and I studied in the same class in the old Conservatory.
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It is indeed delightful to hear from him again. And now about yourself. I under- stand that you want to study composition with me, Fraulein,” he continued, looking at me with kindly scrutiny.
“ If you will take me for a pupil, Herr Professor,” said I.
“ I think we can arrange it,” he said, smiling, “ although my time is almost wholly occupied. Tell me what you have already studied.”
Whereupon we launched into details, and he appointed next Wednesday as the time for my first lesson. He does not speak a word of English, and I found him exceedingly difficult to understand, but he assures me he is accustomed to foreigners.
“ If we don’t make ourselves intelligible,” he ended, laughing, “we can try a few French phrases, or even a bit of Latin, as a pupil of mine did the other day.” Instead of my taking leave of him there, he went out to the very door with me, which he opened, bowing smilingly, and as it closed [ 2% ]
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I felt wonderfully less like a stranger in a strange land.
At the corner I took a tram back to town. They are all alike, very short, and painted the Bavarian blue. Think of a city so patriotic that the street cars assume the national hue! The conductor politely touched his hat to me as I entered. I thought he must have mistaken me for some one else till I saw him salute each passenger in the same courteous manner. Where Brienner-strasse meets Odeons-Platz I alighted. This is just by the Feldernhalle. If you have seen pictures of the Loggia at Florence you can tell how it looks, for it is a copy of the Italian building. Here I was
to meet Fraulein L . She is a friend of
the Baroness and had offered to help me in hiring a piano. That elocution course of ours proved very valuable to me at this stage, for had it not been for the telling and effective gestures with which I supple- mented my German I might have had in my study a far less acceptable instrument than the excellent Bliithner which now [23]
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stands here and for which I pay the ab- surdly small sum of ten marks (two dollars and a half) a month.
44 By the bye,” said I, as we were walking through Theatiner-strasse, 44 did I make a great many mistakes in my note to you?” I meant this to sound naively humble, but in reality I had spent a half-hour on the composition of those ten lines and I was rather proud of the result.
44 Oh, no,” she replied, smiling, 44 you merely asked me to meet you on top of the Feldernhalle. 1 was wondering,” she added, mischievously, glancing as we passed at the buildings imposing height, “just how I could get up there.”
For several blocks 1 was silent, medita- ting on the sad results of 44 pride, rank pride and haughtiness of soul,” although I fully appreciated her effort at a joke. Such pleas- antries are almost unheard of in German girls, and whenever they do say anything facetious they look very much frightened, as though at a loss whether to apologize at once or explain how it came to happen. I [24]
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must send you one of the comic papers. They considerately print the point of a joke in italics. One has at least the satisfaction of knowing when to laugh, a virtue not to be despised when one considers the subtle- ties of modern wit, so called.
44 This is where I buy my music,” said
Friiulein L , stopping before a small
store, “ and if it pleases you I will introduce you here.”
Accordingly we went in, and after meet- ing the proprietor I was initiated into the mysteries of that very important factor in a student’s life, an abonnement . One pays
a small sum for the privilege of taking out music from a circulating library for a defi- nite length of time. The arrangement im- pressed me at once as advantageous, and 1 inquired as to the kinds of music the cata- logue contained. 44 Why, songs, operas, overtures, anything you care for,” said the proprietor, in a patronizing tone.
44 Then I can get orchestral scores,” I said.
44 Orchestral scores ? ” he cried, starting back as though I had asked him to pluck the [25]
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moon out of the sky. “ My dear young lady, what can you possibly want of orchestral scores ? ” We should call this impudence in America, but I really do not think he in- tended it as such. He had simply not come much in contact with the modern Ameri- can girl. After explanation on both sides, I found, however, that it would be better for me to obtain scores from the Conserva- tory, which I intend to enter, and where, I learn, all the standard scores are on hand.
You would hardly believe me if I should tell you how many bareheaded, blue- aproned girls we met carrying beer through the streets during our walk home. But my surprise at the sight was lost in greater amazement at beholding the number of steins they are able to carry at one time. Not two or three, my dear, but six, yes, even ten, in one hand. It is an art in itself. If one is careless and holds the handful a quarter of an inch from perpendicular, the beer comes oozing out at the top and tric- kles on the sidewalk. This disturbs no one in the least. As we passed the droschky [26]
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stand on Max-Josepli-Platz about eleven o’clock, there stood all the cabbies lounging against their carriages or ranged along the curbstones, leisurely drinking great steins of frothy beer which one of these blue-aproned girls had just brought. When they finished they set their empty mugs on the window ledges of the building. Imagine a dozen of our hackmen draining steins on Brimstone Corner and then leaving them in a row on the steps of Park Street Church !
How can I write you about the evening or rather afternoon and evening which fol- lowed ? When I tell you that it was my first hearing of “ Tristan and Isolde ” in the wonderful new Prince Regent Theatre, are you surprised that I hesitate ? I will let you read for yourself in the infallible Red Book of the unique construction of the house which is used for the reproduction of W agner’s operas alone, of the peculiar stage, and of that stroke of genius, the concealed orchestra. If I attempted any explanations I should fail lamentably, for all else is for- [27]
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gotten in the memory of that glorious music. The crowd of magnificently dressed people promenading between the acts through res- taurant, garden, and corridors, the strange types of musicians from every quarter of the globe, the trumpet calls to summon us back to our places — all are now a confused medley of impressions. I only see Knote, as Tristan, quaffing the fatal draught, and Ternina, a regal Isolde, waving her white scarf in the mysterious moonlight of that most alluring of gardens.
Who was it said that in Tristan the “ thrills relieve one another in squads ” ? It seems to me there is no respite : one is swept along and borne aloft uninterruptedly by the power of the music — music magical in its chromatic beauty, tremendous in its in- tensity. Breathless, at the final fall of the curtain, I hardly realized my physical ex- haustion till we reached home. The strain in endeavoring to follow the multi -woven orchestration, as well as the action, had not been a light one.
During one of the pauses I caught sight
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of a slender, rather pale young man elbow- ing his way through the crowd. I turned to look at him, for his face struck me as strangely familiar. Who do you think it was ? Siegfried JVagner ! Fancy what his feelings must be to see all this homage paid to his father’s genius.
Sunday .
As a result of my intoxication last night — if one may so call it — 1 overslept this morning and was in danger of being late to church. In fact, the people were already on their knees when we entered the little chapel which is the home of American church life here. The name chapel is only applied out of compliment, for it is really a large room with improvised altar at one end, a piano in the corner, and rows of chairs for pews. It seemed, however, as fine as a cathedral to us, and how beautiful it sounded to hear those familiar old prayers again in our mother tongue, while everywhere with- out these walls was the babble of a foreign language.
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At the close of the service, as the rector was reading that most impressive of prayers, the prayer for those at sea, and we were fol- lowing with more than usual devoutness, for the dangers and perils of the great deep were still very real to us, bang ! the blare of trumpet, thud of drum, and thunder of trombone burst on the stillness, and the sound of a lively march, the sort to make one’s feet tingle, came ever louder and louder to our ears. I expected to see the rector’s face change and to hear him hurriedly close, but no, his voice kept on peacefully, unconcernedly, and the people knelt absorbed as though the thought of worldly things was far removed. I must confess I found it hard to keep my mind fastened on the spiritual ; it was my first experience of hearing anything from the ritual accompanied by Sousa music, and the irreverence shocked me.
I was eager to inquire about the music, but after the service, as we reached the end of the aisle, the rector came forward with outstretched hand. The consul, to whom [30]
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we had letters, had told him of the two new strangers in the colony, and his welcome was most cordial.
“ I want you both to come to tea at the Russicher Hof to-morrow, if you will par- don the unconventionality of my invitation,” said his wife, a bustling little woman in black. “ There will be several music students on hand and it may be pleasant for you to meet one another.” We thanked her heartily. One appreciates these things so much when away from home.
The music had now begun again, this time abandoning the martial for the romantic, and giving out the opening strains of Von Weber’s overture to Der Freischiltz .
“It’s more than a brass band,” said I, urging Miitterchen along. “ There are clarinets and flutes. Do let’s hurry.”
We turned down the little archway which led from the chapel door to the main street, and voila! there was a picture well worth seeing. Have I explained that in front of the Feldernhalle is a triangular open space ? This now was thronged with a gayly attired [31]
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crowd, who were promenading up and down or chatting in small groups, while from the balcony of the Feldernhalle itself came the sound of inspiring music played by the great military band of the city.
One caught the irresistible charm of color enhanced by sunshine. The scarlet uni- forms of the officers who were everywhere, the bright caps of the students, the gleam- ing helmets of the officials set off against the dark background of the Alte Residenz lent an artistic touch to a scene already brilliant.
“Is n’t it splendid ? ” cried I, excitedly, as we moved along with the laughing throng. “Just see, Miltterchen , there’s an officer kissing that lady’s hand. It ’s like a scene from a play.”
“ It ’s all a rather strange sight on Sun- day,” replied Miltterchen , smiling gently.
I suddenly remembered my Puritan an- cestors and felt I ought to shut my ears to the fascinating lilt of the “ Merry Wives of Windsor” overture.
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would call these people wicked,” I said, with a glance at the happy crowd about me.
Just then the student from our pension passed us with a low bow. There were a number of young men with him, all wearing round caps of black and purple. (The col- ors indicate the corps or club to which they belong.) Do you know that the men bow first in this country ? To the masculine sex is allotted the right to accept or reject an acquaintance. Is n’t that truly German ?
We were glad that Herr Martens had condescended to recognize us, for it gave us a pleasant sensation to realize we were not utterly unacquainted in that great throng of people. Not two minutes later, who should swoop down upon us but Frau von Wald- fel. Cecilia mia, don’t let me hear of your banishing “ swoop ” to the category of slang. I am much attached to that invaluable word. Have you ever seen a gull circling with wide-spread wings above a fish in the water beneath, and then suddenly dart down and bear away his prey ? When cer- tain people accost me this picture invariably 3 [ 33 ]
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comes to my mind. Frau von Waldfel swoops down and captures one like the gull, while I play the part of the unfortunate fish.
“ So you are enjoying the Parada, are you ? ” she began. She had once spent a season in London, and so caught the English habit of making her remarks inter- rogative. “We always have this music every Sunday. I ’ve been doing a little shopping, you see, on my way home from church.” (She pointed to a number of small packages under her arm.) “ I’ve or- dered some cakes sent up to the pension. Did you know the tarts here are not nearly so good as those in Berlin ? Dear me, I have quite forgotten whether you said you had been there or not. Your daughter is such a quiet girl,” she added to Mutterchen , “ I never can draw her out.”
Miitterchen gave an involuntary gasp at this last remark.
“ Are all the stores open Sunday ? ” I said, endeavoring to show I could make conversation. All I needed was an oppor- tunity.
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“ Of course ! Why not ? ” she answered, as we turned our steps towards Maximilian- Platz. “ They close at one o’ clock ; on other days at half-past seven in the evening. I ’m a regular guide-book, much more prac- tical than that red one I see you carry. Speaking of Berlin tarts, I want to tell you
that I never ate ” and so on — can’t
you hear her ? — till we reached the door.
We spent a quiet afternoon reading and writing letters. After supper the Baroness invited us to come into the salon. “ I always try to make Sunday evening a pleas- ant time,” she said. What was our surprise on entering to see them all seated around a table playing cards. They seemed much disappointed that we did not join them.
If this letter of mine is posted to-night, it will catch the New York mail steamer, so I shall send it out now by Georg, the man- servant of the house. Auf WiederseJien , and don’t forget I am hungry for news of everything at home.
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October 4.
Top o' the morning , Cecy dear !
UCH A GLORIOUS, ALLE-
gro vivace day ! The sun is shining,
the air is crisp and cool, and the sauciest of breezes is coquetting with the tree-tops in the Platz. It gets into one’s blood, a morning like this, and the wildest dreams seem possible of fulfilment. I came home from my lesson humming the theme of the scherzo of Beethoven’s eighth sym- phony. It seemed to fit the buoyancy of my mood as nothing else could.
I can see you smile now and hear you say, “ It ’s quite evident she is happy in her new surroundings.” Exactly so, my dear, and there are so many delightful things to tell you about that I don’t know where to begin. However, the Conservatory forms one of the most vital elements of my new life here, so I ’ll start by telling you of my first visit there.
Be it known, then, that the Royal Con- servatory of Munich, to give it its full title,
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opened the eighteenth, and promptly at nine o’clock I made my way thither. What a rambling old building it is, and how re- plete with association ! So many musicians have studied here at some time or other, although Rheinberger and many of the teachers who have made it famous are now memories of the past. With a certain in- definable thrill I realized I was actually within these walls.
Instead of the Herein! which I expected to hear in response to my knock on the door of the director’s room, Stavenhagen himself opened the door. I wonder if you heard him play when he was in Amer- ica. He ’s a handsome man, not much above thirty, with blue eyes, firm chin, straight nose, and curly blond hair and mustache.
In fact, he has all the delightful character- istics of a German, and none of the unlovely ones. Besides this, he is tall, a rarity in men of his nation.
4 4 Eine Amerikanerin ! ” he said pleasantly, pushing a chair forward. “ I speak a lee-tle [40]
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English, but,” he went on in German, “ perhaps we will make more progress if I stick to my mother tongue.”
“ 1 speak a very little German,” said I, smil- ing, not feeling in the least afraid of him, and forthwith explained my situation and what I wished to do at the school. A little man, whose face, beard, and hair all seemed the same reddish color, was looking over a pile of letters in the corner of the room. He now glanced up at me curiously as I began my inquiries about the Partitur Lesen (score reading) class of which I had read in the catalogue.
You know that five years ago women were not allowed to study counterpoint at the Conservatory. In fact, anything more advanced than elementary harmony was de- barred. The ability of the feminine intellect to comprehend the intricacies of a stretto, or cope with double counterpoint in the tenth, if not openly denied, was severely questioned. This carefully nourished conservatism has yielded considerably. The counterpoint class is now open to women, although as yet [41]
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comparatively few avail themselves of the opportunity. Formerly, too, all the teachers in the Conservatory were men, but one finds to-day two women enrolled as professors among the forty on the list.
“ I should like to enter the Partitur Lesen class,” said I, innocently, not then having learned all this.
Stavenhagen looked at the little man. The little man looked back at Stavenhagen. If I had thrown a bombshell they could not have appeared more startled. The little man at once abandoned his letters and stood staring, a few feet in front of me.
“There have never been any women in the class. I am right, am I not, Herr Sek- retcir 1 ” said Stavenhagen.
“ You are right, Herr Direktor ,” responded the other. He held his hands behind him and gazed at me as one might at a curious species of animal. 1 felt I ought to be tagged, like those poor creatures in the Zoo, “Rare. From North America.”
“Is the class full, Herr Sekretar ? ” in- quired Stavenhagen.
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“ About thirty men have registered, Herr Direktor ,” solemnly answered the secretary.
There was a pause.
“ Have you ever played string quartets from score, Friiulein?” inquired the director.
“ Yes, Herr Direktor ,” said I, with that supreme calmness which comes at times when one is inwardly much disturbed. Again there was a pause. Even I began to be impressed by the solemnity of the occasion.
“ Of course,” said the director, “because a Friiulein never has joined the class is no reason why a Friiulein never can.”
“Not at all,” said the secretary. The gravity of his expression was worthy a crisis in the affairs of state.
The two men walked to the other side of the room, and while they conversed in whispers I stood gazing out of the window at the equestrian statue in the Platz, unable to hide the smile at the corners of my mouth. Although conscious of my many peculiarities, I had never before considered myself an abnormal being, and to be so re- garded struck me as amusing.
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It seemed to take them a long time to come to a decision. When my impatience had subsided to a state of hopelessness, Stavenhagen came forward.
“ Your request is unusual, Fraulein,” he began, “ but — but — well, you may come on Friday at three o’clock.”!,
With a sigh of relief I bowed myself out in approved German fashion, feeling as might the immortal Napoleon after a hard- won victory.
The first Kaim-Saal concert of the season came in the evening. The Kaim-Saal is a splendid hall with a large organ, where most of the concerts are held. There was a fine program including Beethoven’s first sym- phony. I was greatly interested to see Weingartner conduct. Tie looked very young as he stepped to the platform. He is slight and dark, with brown, clever eyes. I must confess that at first I did not like his conducting at all. It seemed to me extreme and even sensational. However, as I became accustomed to his extravagant methods, the earnestness and power of the man impressed [ 44 ]
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me more and more. When it came to the Beethoven number he directed without score. He fairly swept the orchestra along, and his every gesture was pregnant with meaning. I could not help thinking of Gericke’s straight immovable figure as I saw Weingartner wave wildly to right and left, rise on tiptoe, sway forward, and now, by one tense, quick movement of his stick, bring his men to a grand climax. Some- times he even let his beat cease entirely and his arm drop to his side, while the orchestra seemed to carry itself along like a wheel which continues revolving after the force which propelled it has stopped.
My enthusiasm caught fire from his, and at the close of the concert I was cheering as wildly as the rest of the audience. I can’t tell you how many times he came forward to bow his thanks amid the cries of “ Bravo ! Bravo ! ” He seemed to enjoy it all hugely and kept smiling down on us. When he does that his face loses every bit of dignity and he looks like nothing so much as a roguish boy.
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On our way down to the Garderobe , where every one checks one’s things for the fee of twenty pfennigs (five cents), we met
Mr. B . He is a harmless young curate
from the north of England ; one of those men who have soft, gentle voices, Van Dyke beards, and always sit on the edge of a chair. He had been to the church tea that after- noon, and shown a praiseworthy desire to make himself agreeable.
“ Ah, good evening,” he said, “ was it not a beautiful concert ? And so uplifting ! I
see you have the score to — to ”
“ The Beethoven symphony,” I replied.
“ Oh, yes. Beethoven has indeed caught the spiritual note, don’t you think so ? It seems to me he is at his best in that won- derful adagio vivace movement! ! ”
I must not forget to tell you that we have two new arrivals at the pension , namely, the Poet and his wife. I have n’t the slightest idea what their name is except that it is very long and very unpronounceable. She is a dear little placid-faced woman of middle age, and he looks like one of Raphael’s [46]
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cherubs in twentieth century clothes. In spite of his infantile expression, however, I hear he has quite a reputation among men of letters.
A Fraulein Hartmann is expected to- morrow, and that will complete our house- hold for the winter. She is the niece of Frau von Waldfel, who declares they greatly resemble each other. I can just imagine her : younger but with the same stout figure, rasping voice, and beady eyes ! I do hope she won’t be put next me at table.
To-day, while we were waiting in the salon for dinner to be announced, I chanced to play a few bars from a piece by MacDowell.
“Is that by your national composer, Sousa ? ” inquired Herr Doktor.
I hastily informed him that it was not.
“ Why ! I did n’t know you had any other composers of importance,” he remarked, with interest.
It is a sad but true fact that American music has, as yet, won no footing in Germany.
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W ednesday.
This afternoon I had my first lesson with Thuille. 1 arrived just as the clock was striking two, and was shown at once into a large room, which in its furnishings and harmony of color betrays the artistic nature of its owner. An atmosphere of cigarette smoke hung about everything, and through the floating clouds by the win- dows I discerned Thuille just taking a final puff, tossing his cigarette away and coming to meet me with outstretched hand.
“ Ach ! Guten Tag, Frauldn !” he said, with a genial smile which put me instantly at my ease. Then he pulled forward a chair beside his own at the desk and bade me be seated. As I took my place a big white and brown hunting dog crawled out from the corner.
“ This is my greatest pet,” explained the professor, caressing the dog, who looked up with devoted eyes at his master’s face. “I call him Tasso. Tasso, let me introduce [48]
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you to a young American lady ! Make a bow and then lie down.”
Tasso obeyed in the cleverest fashion, Thuille watching him with pride. This introduction over, he turned to begin the lesson.
I had brought, as he requested, all the past work which I had with me, and he spent the entire hour in looking it over, asking questions and arranging a plan of study. I told him that I wanted that firm foundation which German thoroughness gives one, and he suggested that I begin by a review commencing with four-part choral writing, then simple counterpoint, and so on. This will form what I call the technical part of my study, and besides this I am to do a certain amount of free work and orchestra- tion. Does n’t it sound interesting ? I hurried home in a fever of impatience to begin the lesson he has given me for Satur- day, only to find callers in the salon. They proved to be two New York girls, also music students. They are studying piano with Frau Langenhan-Hirzel, who is herself a 4 [49]
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pupil of Leschetizky. Both are intensely enthusiastic over their work, and practise from five to six hours a day. After our
coffee, Miss B offered to show me where
her studio was, so, leaving her friend, who had a lesson, we walked down the Platz and up seven and ninety stairs to a tiny room
under the eaves. It seems that Miss B
is not allowed to practise in the pension where she lives, owing to the fact that three other students are singing, playing, or violin- scraping all day long, and the F rau landlady feared that another musician would banish utterly her supply of winter boarders.
Hence Miss B was forced to seek a
place to practise outside, and finally found a secluded room on the top floor of an old house at the very end of the Platz. In the subduing atmosphere of an under- taker’s family she has made her musical home. The room is very small. One corner of the ceiling has caved in and threatens momentarily to fall. The only furniture is a cracked mirror, two rickety chairs, and a fine grand piano, which [50]
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looks laughably out of place in these surroundings.
“ There s only one thing that bothers me,” she said, running over a bit of Chopin. “Just mark the effect of a forte” She played a crashing chord, and presto ! the tiny, diamond panes of the windows rattled sharply in echo. Again a sforzando chord rang out, again came the jarring response.
“ Is n’t it awful ? ” she sighed. “ My nerves are getting worn to shreds ! ”
Believe me, people at home don’t know one half the trials of Munich music stu- dents.
October 20 , 10.30 P. M.
To-night we made our first visit to the Hof -Theatre, which is the main opera house of the city, and heard Humperdinck’s Hansel und Gretel. I like the house immensely, its five balconies in white and gold are so impressive. The curtain is old rose in color, and on it the letter L is inscribed at intervals — for the unfortunate king, you know. What do you think I
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paid for my seat? Only fifty-five cents — and sat, too, in the orchestra. At the Con- servatory last week I received an oblong bit of paper, a sort of certificate, which states that I am pursuing a course of musical study here. On presenting this at the box office I can get a seat in the rear of the par- quet (which corresponds to our orchestra) for just half price. The seats do not extend under the balcony, so they are really very desirable. The extra five cents is for Vorver - kauft , which means a fee for buying tickets in advance.
The opera itself is the most charming thing of its kind I have ever heard. The story is a fairy-tale concerning the delight- ful adventures of two children. Bosetti, a stout little German in spite of the Italian ring to her name, played Gretel and Fraulein Tordeck took the part of Hansel. Both caught the spirit of the piece and sang and acted excellently. The music is fascinat- ing in the extreme, and some of it — the prayer of the two mites in the wood, for example, which brought the tears to my [52]
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eyes — very beautiful. There is no inter- ruption. The music continues even during the pauses between the three so-called pic- tures of the opera. At the beginning of the second picture, which is laid in a wood, Gretel sings the loveliest solo, with the strings pizzicato and a flute obligato. Then there is a wonderful scene showing a flight of golden stairs thronged with white-robed angels who go up and down, while the children lie sleeping beneath a tree. If all the operas are produced as finely as this one I shall certainly think Germany the heaven of composers.
Yesterday Fhiulein Hartmann, Frau von Waldfel’s niece, arrived and proved a most agreeable surprise. Far from being what I had pictured, she is the prettiest creature imaginable, slight, with blue eyes, rosy cheeks, two fascinating dimples which come and go as she talks, and a bewildering pro- fusion of light, fluffy hair which stubbornly refuses to remain in order, but curls about her head like a halo. Her aunt is immensely proud of her, although she treats her like a [53]
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child. The chief cause of her pride seems to be that her niece is engaged — verlobt , as they say — to a German officer. You know it is considered the thing to marry into the army here, for it gives a woman at once the best social position, consequently all the young lieutenants are run after by diplo- matic mammas and ambitious daughters, until I should think they would want to cry “ Hold ! Enough ! ” I believe the neces- sary dowry which the girl’s parents pay over on the wedding day is twelve thousand marks, unless the bridegroom can show that he has that amount of money. It is, how- ever, proverbial that the chief possession of a lieutenant are his unpaid bills, hence it seldom occurs that he himself can afford to marry at his own free will.
Fraulein Hartmann, while essentially German in type, has an unusually sweet expression characterized by a curious little droop at the corners of her mouth which puzzles me a bit. I am sure it is not the result of a spoiled nature, for her patience with her aunt’s querulousness belies that, [54J
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but it seems rather the expression which we associate with unhappiness or pain. At any rate she is decidedly the most interesting person in the pension , and I hope to know her better.
Six o'clock .
The day is dying royally, and as I look out across the now brown and barren tree- tops of the Platz, I see a sky which is one blaze of glory. There is always music in the clouds. Have you never heard the tender, inspiring melody in soft, fleecy puffs as they float in a sea of azure — or caught the melancholy strains of ’cello and oboe in lowering gray masses against a background darker still ? On an afternoon like this, surely you have thrilled in response to the piercing cry of trumpets, horns, and trom- bones, in the riotous masses of scarlet, violet, and gold which flood the heaven ? It does not last long, this intoxicating draught of color and melody, for, as I watch, the clouds dissolve with the resolution of a chord. I can hear the diminuendo rallentando of the [55]
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orchestra as the gold dulls, the scarlet fades to rose, the rose to pink. It hovers — this last, long streak — in one delicate flush against the violet sky, while the strings sustain pianissimo the tonic harmony. Then it suddenly dies, and the music with it. The day is done.
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Mu nich, November 8.
EHOLD ME RECOVERING this morning from the effects of my — * first participation in German frivol- ity. The occasion was the Namens-Tag (name day) of the Baroness.
“You see to-day is mother’s saint’s day, the one for whom she was named,” explained Karl, not very clearly, at dinner.
“ Is it the custom to celebrate this instead of the birthday ? ” I inquired.
Karl looked at me with an expression of pity at my ignorance.
“ We always have a fete on both days,” he said, “ with extra wine and a lot of grand things to eat.”
“ Yes, indeed,” said the Baroness, beaming from her end of the table.
“ Yes, indeed,” echoed the Baron, beaming back on her and radiating his delight along the line of pensionnaires each side. The eyes of Herr Doktor twinkled as he looked across at me. I met his glance with a half [59]
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smile. Neither of us meant to be unkind. France and America were merely united in their appreciation of the humorous. Frau von Waldfel raised her eyebrows disagreea- bly, and looked as though about to start a discussion. To mention food in the presence of that woman is like brandishing a red flag before a bull. Luckily Herr Doktor saw the signs of approaching storm, and with his usual diplomacy turned the trend of conversation, so that an argument was averted for this meal at least.
Is there anything more pitiable than a number of guests, hitherto unknown to one another, endeavoring to appear at ease as they wait the summons to dinner ? W e had thought to avoid this situation by not appearing till half after seven that evening, the hour set for the supper party. Imagine, then, our feelings, when fifteen minutes, a half hour, three quarters dragged by, and no vestige of life from the dining-room 1 Everything moves slowly in Germany, and the culinary department is no exception. The Baroness never seemed so much like a [60]
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beneficent angel as when she opened the dining-room door and invited us to the table. And now a light shone through the clouds, for the stupid Count with whom I had been struggling to converse was whisked away to the other end of the table, and Lieutenant Linder, a young man of about seven and twenty, in the dark blue and scarlet uniform of Bavaria, took the place on my left.
Oh, these officers ! They simply own Munich. When they stride along the street, the entire sidewalk is their undisputed pos- session. How their swords clank, how faultlessly their jackets fit, how their heaven- ward-pointing mustaches curl ! A few of them are really handsome, but if not, it does n’t matter in the slightest. The re- splendency of their uniforms would make one forgive almost anything. When I became accustomed to the atmosphere of conceit in which Lieutenant Linder was enveloped, I found him distinctly entertaining, and, better yet, he had a sense of humor. What with his helping [61]
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me with my German, and my giving him a lesson in English, we managed to get on famously.
The table was profusely decorated with flowers, and there was a great deal to eat and more to drink. The idea in cooking seems to be to produce a color effect. For example, we had as one course well-browned sausage surrounded by a mass of bright red carrots. N ext came the eternal veal, reposing in a vivid green sea of spinach. Do your aesthetic sensibilities shrink at these materi- alistic descriptions ? Remember I am in a materialistic land, amid a materialistic people. Truly the problem which contin- ually confronts me is : how can a people who seem so lethargic, and who make no disguise of their love for the product of the soil and the grape, produce such marvellous, almost superhuman results in the fields of music and philosophy ?
I might have meditated at some length on this question during the Namens-Tag sup- per, had not the Lieutenant kept up a rapid conversation, for we were at the table until [62]
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half-past eleven. Not that we were eating all the time, but the waits between the courses were very long, and in the middle of the dinner we had a pause of twenty min- utes— like an intermission at an assembly — when the Poet, with marked nervousness, read some original verses “To the Baroness on her Name-Day.” The poor woman was even more embarrassed than he, and so moved, when at the close we all rose to drink her health, that two large tears ran down her fat cheeks.
“ Hoch soil sie leben !” cried Herr Doktor, clinking his glass to mine. Every one had to touch his glass to every one else’s or it was “ no fair,” and of course we all walked up to the Baroness and touched hers.
When the coffee had at last been served, we went into the salon carrying away with us a glass of Bowie , or punch, which is much milder than anything called by that name in America. In came a round little man who took his place at the piano, and dancing began.
Lieutenant Linder, with an extremely [63]
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low bow, begged gnadiges Frdulein to give him the honor of the first waltz. Gnadiges Frdulein consented, and off we started. The floor was excellent, — you know one finds hardwood floors everywhere here in- stead of carpets, — but oh, how fast these Germans dance ! The Lieutenant swung me round and round in a small circle, pres- tissimo, until I begged him to stop, where- upon he looked very much surprised and asked me if I had heart trouble. I assured him that such was not the case, but that we were not accustomed in America to whirl about like tops.
Waltzes and old-fashioned polkas fol- lowed in rapid succession. I can’t imagine how Herr Leutnant ever managed to do that one-two-three-hop, one-two-three-hop, without falling over his sword. At mid- night everybody, including Frau von Wald- fel, danced the Franfaise , which is much like our Virginia Reel. You should have seen how the Baron and Baroness enjoyed it, and how astonishingly light they were on their feet ! They fairly glowed with pleas - [64]
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ure, and reminded me of Mr. and Mrs. Fes- siwig at the Christmas party.
I had looked forward to this affair with considerable curiosity, not only because it was to be my first glimpse of German social life, but also because the Baroness had invited Lieutenant Blum, the fiance of Friiulein Hartmann. 1 must confess, how- ever, that I was much disappointed in him. He is short and dark, with a heavy, black mustache which he constantly caresses with his fat little hands. Although I did not exchange a word with him the whole even- ing, except the formalities of an introduc- tion, I could not shake off the impression that he was of much coarser fibre than his betrothed. However, he paid her the most devoted attention the entire evening, and is, apparently, very much in love.
At one o’clock Mutterchen and I ex- changed glances. I had a lesson at the Conservatory the next morning at nine. But at the first hint of our leaving, the Bar- oness looked so distressed and surprised that we were afraid we had been very rude and 5 [65]
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determined to do the proper thing. The proper thing in this instance meant staying up to dance till half-past four in the morn- ing. Oh ! how sleepy I was as I crept into bed and thanked my stars that the Namens- Tagfete was over.
Evening.
By this time I am beginning to feel quite like a native. My surroundings no longer seem strange. I am growing accustomed to five meals a day and the language sounds fairly rational. My work has settled into a regular routine. The entire mornings are devoted to study. In the afternoons come lessons. Twice a week I have a private lesson with Thuille. At the Conservatory I am studying singing with Frau Bianci and piano with Friiulein Fischer, which makes four lessons more. The piano lessons are in a class with two other girls, and not as formid- able as you might suppose, for I have ex- plained to Fraulein Fischer that I am only including piano to keep from forgetting what I already know, and that I need most of my [66]
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time on my composition lessons with Thuille. She is very kind, and every two weeks we are to read duets together. This makes six lessons a week, and what writh the score- reading class and the chorus, I see a busy winter before me. The singing and piano lessons are given in a large, imposing room. It contains twro grand pianos and is fur- nished in red velvet. I could hardly recon- cile this with my ideas of a Conservatory, but Frau Bianci explained that the building was originally used for something quite dif- ferent. Just fancy — we address all the teachers by titles ! “ Herr Professor ” falls
now quite trippingly from my tongue, and even “Frau Professor,” but “Fraulein Pro- fessor ” is a little too much for me as yet !
I will acknowledge that I felt rather strange at the first meeting of the score- reading class, when, on entering the room with the score of Haydn’s symphonies under my arm, I encountered the astonished gaze of thirty pairs of masculine eyes. You could have heard a pin drop, the place was so still, as I walked by the different groups [67]
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and took a seat near the window. Then a low whispering started among the students. Evidently I had created a sensation. A moment later the big door opened and Stavenhagen came in. Every one rose, or straightened himself up at once. With a nod which seemed to include us all, the director took his seat by the piano and the lesson began. Each one was called on to play a number of bars written in four dif- ferent clefs, the old soprano, the tenor, the alto, and the bass — Stavenhagen selecting a new choral every time. It was not till near the end of the hour that he called my name. Just as 1 took my seat before the keyboard, feeling intensely nervous and fearing lest my fingers tremble visibly, I heard one of the men smother a laugh. That settled it ! I was bound to do or die, and with a calmness quite unnatural I played the bars set before me without a mistake. Nobody laughed when I had finished, and now that the first shock is over, the students treat me with the utmost courtesy. Indeed, they seem to have accepted me as inevitable, [68]
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although occasionally I catch one of them staring at me with an expression which says as plainly as words, “ What on earth does a woman want of score reading ? ”
The chorus is well under way. To- day is Thursday, and while you have been singing with the faithful in the Cecilia So- ciety I, too, have been at a rehearsal, only we call it a Probe here, and the atmosphere is somewhat different from that of Pilgrim Hall. The Oberster Chor (which means the upper chorus) met at five o’clock to-day. The room where we sit is on the top door and at the end is an organ. I think the orchestra class generally practises here. The air is always frightfully close and hot, for there are about two hundred of us and never a window open. That is the German idea. What a splendid thing a Fresh Air Fund would be over here !
The piano against the wall is on a raised platform about which the chorus forms a half circle. Professor Becht, one of the organ teachers, presides. Such a time as he does have endeavoring to maintain order !
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But the moment we begin to sing — ah ! that is a different matter. Each pupil be- comes utterly absorbed in the notes before him, from the first measure to the last. Each sings as though he loves to sing ; yes, better than that, as though he actually feels what he sings, which is more than can be said of many vocalists who have won both fame and fortune. There, you see, is an- other side of these complex Germans. The love of music is their birthright, the appre- ciation of it intuitive.
How I wish you might see some of this queer congregation ! The masculine ele- ment ranges from small boys to bearded men. The girls and men are kept strictly separate, like the sheep and the goats. They enter and go out by different doors, for the building is divided in two distinct sections. The sanctity of each section is kept as in- violate as a Shaker settlement.
The front row of tenors in the chorus amuses me exceedingly. It consists of boys who wear their hair pompadour and yell out- rageously. Did you ever notice the effect [70]
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of a boy with pompadour hair opening his mouth very wide ? It is truly startling. The basses form a eurious vis-a-vis for these youthful aspirants. Their age is in the neigh- borhood of thirty. Obviously to be a bass singer requires both dignity and experience. Most of them think it also requires a full beard. Several of the pupils affect the artis- tic, or are dressed after the old masters, with long hair, brown corduroy velvet jackets, and flowing neckties. There is one I have named Rubinstein, he looks so much like the pictures of the great pianist. And the most interesting tenor-boy I call Beethoven. He wears a big white collar into which he sinks his chin, and with deep, earnest eyes under closely knit brows gazes gravely out on a frivolous world.
I felt very much like the proverbial stray cat as I entered the room at the first rehearsal, alone and silent in all that crowd of chatter- ing German girls. Not knowing where to sit, I cast an anxious look around and caught the friendly glance of a girl in the second row. She beckoned to me somewhat shyly.
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“ There is a place here, if you care for it,” she said.
Overjoyed to hear my mother tongue, I gladly took the seat beside her, and we were soon chatting in the unconventional way known to strangers who meet on strange soil. I could not but notice with what a high-bred manner my new friend carried her head. Her hair, black and curling, is coiled in a low knot at the back of the whitest of necks, for she wears her blouses cut out a little without a collar, as is the strange and rather chilling fashion here. I was struck, too, by her jacket of black velvet, an odd school dress, but one which seems to suit her perfectly.
“ You are English, are you not ?” I ques- tioned.
“ Not at all,” said she, her blue eyes snap- ping as much as blue eyes ever can snap. “I’m Irish. I come from County Cork.”
“ Oh ! ” I said, drawing a long breath, as visions of the representatives County Cork generally sends to America flashed through my mind.
“ I ’m taking piano as my Hauptsac/ie [72]
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with Krause,” she went on. “You know Stavenhagen and Krause have a great many foreign pupils. By the bye,” she continued, “ I have a friend myself in the United States. I wonder if you know her — a Miss Curtis.”
“ Could n’t you tell me what city she lives in ? ” I suggested. “ I know several people of that name.”
“ Then I ’m sure you know her. How delightful!” she replied, radiant. (I made a mental note of the fact that jumping at conclusions is a trait not confined exclu- sively to American women.) “ She comes from Los Angeles.”
For the twentieth time since my arrival in Munich I explained the relative situation of Boston and San Francisco, and politely regretted that I could not know all the music students as far as the Pacific coast.
I was surprised at first to see how much deference is paid the professors here. When- ever one enters the room we all immediately rise and do not sit until he either goes out or, by a gracious wave of the hand, accords us permission to resume our places. In [73]
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spite of my democratic birth, these marks of respect impressed me as extremely fitting. About every two weeks comes a “ Vortrags - abend” an evening devoted to a concert by the pupils. Stavenhagen has a large orches- tra composed of the students, which he con- ducts himself. We are marked, too, by some occult system whereby our standing is never known unless we “ flunk.”
Last week I had a very pleasant chat with Professor Gluth. He is a well-known composer here, has written several operas, and teaches at the school. Margaret Ruth- ven Lang had been kind enough to give me a letter of introduction to him. He was her teacher when she was in Munich. I have been trying to see him for some time, but have always missed him. He is a splendid-looking man, very large, with white hair, and his manner is most cordial. He was delighted to hear of Miss Lang, and I was proud to tell him of her success in the musical world.
We have been to the opera twice since I wrote, once to hear Die Weisse Dame [74]
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and the second to hear “ Fidelio.” I am afraid the report that the Prince Regent was to be there had more to do with our going than the desire to hear Die Wcissc Dame itself, although it is a pretty opera in its way. The audience was very splendid and the royal box brilliantly lighted. The most expensive places are in the first balcony, and here we saw very fine costumes and jewels. At ten minutes past seven — the opera as a rule begins at seven — the or- chestra struck up “ God save the King,” and the people rose en masse as the Prince, ac- companied by the Crown Princess and several members of the royal family, entered the box. The Regent at once came to the front, and with one hand resting on the red velvet railing, bowed repeatedly to right and left. He is of medium height, with white hair and flowing white beard. His eyes are bright and kindly, and his bearing, while most dignified, is utterly without ostentation. It was an inspiring sight, — the five balconies, the floor, and the boxes all alive with a crowd of enthusiastic people, who, standing, faced [75]
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this man who served them as king, and ap- plauded till the house echoed with their cries of “Hoch! Hoch!”
Although “ Fidelio,” which we heard on W ednesday, presented no such gorgeous spectacle, how much more we enjoyed that evening ! Morena sang the title role, and I feel as though I never want to see any one else in the part. She is a tall, commanding woman of great beauty, and the masculine dress of Leonora suits her marvellously. Her voice is exquisite, fresh, and true, and her acting shows great intensity of power and feeling. Bosetti, who, you remember, sang so delightfully in Hansel und Gretel made a charming Marzelline. When the opera was over Mutterchen and I rose to go, but to our surprise saw that the audience remained seated. As we took our places again, Zumpe raised his baton and the first measures of that divine Leonore overture number three rang out. I have never heard anything more impressive, coming as it did to form a finale to the opera itself. It seemed as though the people held their [76]
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breath during the performance ; not a rustle, not a movement distracted one from the glorious music of the orchestra. At the close the whole house broke into wild ap- plause and cries for “ Zurnpe ! Zumpe ! ”
I do think this German enthusiasm splendid. We talk about the stolidity of the Teutonic race, but I have never yet seen here an unresponsive audience. If they do not like a thing they remain silent. It is the exception to hear any hissing, although it now and then occurs. If they do like a thing they applaud, and applaud lustily. They resemble big, impulsive children, and the man who said “ There is nothing for preserving the body like having no heart” would find no place among them. That cherished enormity known as Modern Indifference, by so many of us regarded as the outward sign of culture, is, in Germany, thank Heaven, conspicuous by its absence.
November 28.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. I could hardly realize that you were feasting L 77 ]
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at home on turkey and cranberry sauce amid all the festivities of the season. The day here passed as usual with my morning of study and a lesson with Thuille in the afternoon. In the evening, that we might not forget what day it was, the American colony had a dinner and dance at one of the large hotels. I had no idea before that there were so many Americans in Munich.
Colonel W said there must be about
four hundred in all, and fully two hundred and fifty came to the dinner. The rooms were lavishly decorated with American flags and flowers, as were also the tables. And oh ! how pleasant was the sound of English on every side. The consul’s wife and the rectors wife received the guests under a red, white, and blue bower, and at seven o’clock we all went into the dining-room to the strains of the “ Star Spangled Banner.” The rector asked grace and then came the dinner. That, dear Cecy, I must confess, was but a farce when compared to the genuine creation, in spite of the American flag on the menu and the assurance that [78]
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these were American turkeys especially imported for the occasion. The cranberry sauce, too, would, I believe, have been passed by unrecognized on the other side, but any- thing was preferable to dining on veal and beer on Thanksgiving Day. After the dinner came dancing — it had been thought best to have no speeches — and it did seem delightful to trip it in a sane way once more. The whole affair was decidedly successful, and made us realize that Thanksgiving was a real institution even if we were on German soil.
I must tell you how charming all the people here made my birthday, which came this week. In the morning M'utterchen presented me with some lovely gifts tied with a red, white, and blue ribbon. To our surprise, about ten o ’clock came a knock on my door, and in walked Karl bearing a huge cake on a tray, the Baron and Baroness following. They were all three beaming with delight, and each shook my hand a dozen times in their cordial way, wishing me all sorts of good things. The cake had [79]
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been ordered and made at the pastry cook’s especially for me. It was round and bore across the top, in letters of marvellous white frosting script, “ Herzlichen Gruss” (Hearty Greeting).
“ That must have the place of honor,” I cried, much moved by their friendliness, as I swept the books off the table. “It is truly a wonderful cake.”
Hardly had they gone when a second knock sounded, and in response to my “ Herein ! ” in came the servants in a row, headed by Georg, the butler. Twisting the buttons of his livery, he made a little speech very fast, all of which I could not understand, but the burden of it was a wish that the lieber Gott would keep gnadiges Frdulein in health and happiness all her days. Then he shook me warmly by the hand. The maids followed, each wishing me good fortune in some pretty couplet, and with a quaint little courtesy also shaking my hand. It was all done with such delightful simplicity that I can never forget it.
But this was not all the kindness I re-
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ceived, for when we went out to dinner, there on my phite was a beautiful basket of white roses from my 4 4 friends in the pension .” I did not know what to say in my sur- prise, so I only exclaimed Danke Taus- endmal (a thousand thanks), and sat down quickly, lest I should cry or do some equally foolish thing.
Just as we were leaving the room after dinner Frau von Waldfel came up to me, her niece by her side.
44 1 want to tell you, my dear, that I sent to Nuremberg for some Lebkuchen in honor of your birthday,” she said. 44 You will find the package in your room. They tried to persuade me in the shops,” she added, low- ering her voice to a whisper, 44 that the Lebkuchen they sell here are as good as the genuine article, but I know better, and these are the real Nuremberg ones, famous the world over.”
I thanked her heartily for her thoughtful- ness, assuring her that I had often read of them in my fairy-tale books. Then they both shook hands and Fraulein Hartmann, 6 [81]
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blushing slightly, leaned over and kissed me.
“ It is the custom,” she said shyly, “ and perhaps you will miss your American friends less on this day if you realize you have made new ones here.” Wasn’t it sweet of her ?
In the evening we celebrated by going to the Populai~es Konzert — the Baron and Baroness, Herr Doktor, Lieutenant Linder, Miltterchen , and myself. It was held in the Kaim Saal, where the Weingartner concerts are given, and rendered by the same orchestra under the leadership of Scharrer. In place of the rows of seats were substituted tables as at our 4 4 Pops ” at home. The hall was extremely crowded when we entered and we did not at first obtain a table where we could sit together. Mutterchen and I took places at one in the rear, and I noticed after we had been seated a few moments the disagreeable expression on the faces of the strangers at the table. In fact, two of them looked seriously offended and made some remark to each other, sotto voce , with a glance towards us. In bewilderment I [82]
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wondered what could have destroyed their equanimity, for they seemed placid enough when we first came in. Suddenly it flashed across me.
“ Don’t you remember,” I whispered to Miitterchen , “ Editli told us the other day it was the custom to bow to those sitting at table whenever we took a seat with them ? We didn’t do it, hence this atmosphere of ungracious toleration.”
Miitterchen looked alarmed, but just then the lieutenant came up to take us to a table large enough for our whole party, and we soothed the wounded feelings of those we had so unconsciously offended by bestowing the most cordial of bows as we went away.
This was not, however, our only unhappy experience, born of ignorance and American training, on that evening. It chanced, when we reached home after the concert, that the lieutenant turned to Miitterchen first to say good night.
“A most enjoyable evening, gnadige Frau” he said, bending low over her hand. That he was to kiss it she had not the slight-
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est premonition. In point of fact he did n’t, but he tried to, while Mutterchen inno- cently raised her hand at the critical moment and gave him a fearful rap under the nose. His glasses flew off with a crash, and he flushed very red, more from the blow than embarrassment. It takes a great deal to embarrass a German officer. While he groped about on the floor in search of his glasses, Mutterchen stammered forth a flood of apologies in the best German the Berlitz School affords. We were indeed relieved when he recovered the glasses intact, and a hearty laugh banished our distress, for the Germans like a joke — provided it is not too subtle — as well as the rest of us.
Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelungen is to be given in two weeks, and we purchased our seats to-day. I am all enthusiasm to hear it and am reading the poems. I have a splen- did little book which has the leading motifs written out at the back and in the margins of the pages a statement of just what motif occurs at certain lines. It sounds complex, — does n’t it ? — but is most interesting.
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Wish me joy, and in the meantime believe me, as always,
M.
P. S. Fraulein Hartmann is not happy. I am convinced of it. To be sure, I never see her except at table, for her aunt keeps her always closely by her side. But to-day I passed the girl in the hall, and her eyes were swollen from, crying. She looked so sad that I stopped and asked her if I could not do something for her. For a moment she looked at me hesitatingly and seemed about to speak, when in walked her unbear- able aunt.
“ My niece has a frightful headache,” she exclaimed, “and bed is the best place for her.”
I feel sure that odious lieutenant has been doing or not doing something that disturbs her. I am constantly meeting him on the stairs. He comes in every day to drink afternoon coffee and is usually sauntering down just as I come in from the chorus hour at the Conservatory. When he sees me he bows very low, and, with a twist of his tire- [85]
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some mustache and a glance which he imagines is impressive, hopes “ sehr geelirtes Fraulein is in good health.”
If it were n’t for his stunning uniform I don’t believe the pretty Fraulein would look at him twice !
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Munich, December 8.
Dear Cecilia : —
in great gusts, which begin piano ,
HE WIND IS SHRIEKING
crescendo to fortissimo , and then die away in weird, unearthly echoes, while the rain keeps up a continuous counterpoint to this minor music in sharp staccato against the window panes. The mist is so thick that the obelisk at the end of Max-Joseph- strasse looks like a mere shadow. It is now five o’clock and I have “ shut up shop,” as it were, to talk with you, for my lesson for to-morrow, a fugue in C minor, is finished. It occurred to me, as I was writing it, how curiously a fugue subject resembles certain clever and unscrupulous people. Both are thoroughly adaptable, both are capable of saying the direct opposite of what they have previously boldly stated, both are difficult to deal with and can only be managed successfully by employing the greatest finesse.
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Tuesday .
I was interrupted in my letter of yester- day by Frau von W aldfel and her niece, who came to call. Of course that meant a cup of coffee. When they left I had to hurry down to the school for a lesson, so writing was out of the question. By the bye, I am afraid I may have excited your sympathies unduly in favor of Fraulein Hartmann, for ever since that day I wrote you, when I met her cry- ing in the hall, she has appeared most cheer- ful. Yesterday she was in unusual spirits, although to tell the truth her gayety struck me as somewhat forced. It was as if she were endeavoring to overcome the impres- sion which her tears must have given me.
After my lesson with Thuille yesterday I stopped in at Miss Pollard’s. She is a piano student with whom I have become ac- quainted, and goes by the nickname of Polly. I found her sitting on a very low stool before the piano and resting her fingers on the keys, for all the world like a child too little to reach up to play.
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“ What are you doing ? ” I said.
I’m practising,” she said, with crushing dignity. Then, throwing me a supercilious glance, “ This is an exercise especially rec- ommended by Leschetizky.”
“ Oh ! ” said I meekly, inwardly wonder- ing if there are any more sensitive creatures on earth than we music students. How en- thusiastically we rave over our “ method ” ! How more than ready we are to challenge man, woman, or child who breathes a doubt of its infallibility ! And oil ! with what majestic disdain we utterly ignore the very existence of any other ! Realizing all this, I judged it wiser to change the subject by asking quickly, —
“ Are the girls coming to-day ? ”
No sooner had I spoken than in came the two New York girls of whom I wrote as calling on me when I first arrived. We have become firm friends by this time. Over a cup of tea we four discussed the last Weingart- ner concert, and more especially Alexander Petschnikof. (I can never pronounce his name without wanting to sneeze.) He [91 1
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had played the Mozart Concerto and Bach’s Chiaconna most acceptably, to judge from hL reception. Since none of us were violinists we felt free to discuss his style and phras- ing with all that intolerance which people are wont to employ when criticising things of which they themselves are ignorant.
Just as we were putting on our wraps Polly made a confession.
“ Well, girls, I ’ll have to tell you the truth,” she said. “ I ’ve been complained of to the police.”
“ Again ? ” said Louise, in a startled whisper.
“ Again ? ” Edith and I echoed, aghast.
“ And who is it this time ? ” demanded Edith. She has a way of recovering and getting at the root of things before any one else. She did not ask why. We all knew that there could be but one reason. Polly, usually the essence of demureness, turned and looked at us with hard, angry eyes.
“ It ’s the Poet downstairs,’* she explained. “ He says I ’m ruining his inspirations by [92]
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my barbaric pounding. Fancy that reach- ing Leschetizky’s ears ! He says I’m 4 at it’ all day!”
44 Outrageous ! ” cried Louise.
44 Preposterous ! ” avowed Edith.
They were both following the laws of Leschetizky.
44 1 ’m so sorry,” said I more mildly, for somehow I could not help but see a picture of the distressed poet, pacing the floor, and beating his brow as he vainly sought for a brilliant thought, while from above came the unceasing, monotonous, nerve-destroy- ing sound of a Czerny exercise repeated over and over.
44 It ’s not the moving I mind,” continued Polly, 44 1 ’m quite an adept at that, having lived in three pensions since my arrival last August.” Here she smiled bitterly. 44 But at one thing I do rebel, and that is at hav- ing to pay thirty marks for a damper for my piano, which I ordered from Berlin in the hope of appeasing him when he com- plained a week ago ! ”
It was, indeed, an unhappy situation. W e [93]
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all knew, too, that those thirty marks meant a good deal to Polly.
“ Perhaps, after all, it will come out all right,” said Louise consolingly.
“ I consider it an absolutely absurd pro- ceeding ! ” said Edith emphatically, as she stamped out into the hall.
“You might come down and talk with the Poet’s Wife at our pension” I suggested. We always said “ the Poet’s Wife,” since we had long ago given up her five-syllable name as hopeless. “I’m sure she would be able to help you.”
You see Polly lives alone. We three discussed the matter as we walked down the Ludwig-strasse, the girls leaving me at the Conservatory, where I had a piano lesson at five.
And now I must stop, for it is time to dress for the opera. To think of hearing the “ Rheingold ” at last !
Saturday .
I have heard the “ Rheingold ” and “ The Valkyrie,” and can hardly wait for “ Sieg- [94]
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fried ” to-morrow night. Every seat in the Hof-Theatre was occupied, and an immense crowd stood downstairs. The price of seats, increased three marks, seemed to make no difference in the attendance. Polly and two of her friends were too late to obtain any desirable places, so they clubbed together and engaged a Dienstmann to get their seats for them. One finds a Dienstmann at every turning here. They are forlorn, sad-eyed creatures, in short, frayed jackets and red caps, who linger on street corners gazing abstractedly into space with their hands in their pockets. For a small sum they will run from one end of Munich to the other, or, if need be, will stand in line for tickets from four in the morning on. Polly has a favorite old Dienstmann called Friedrich. Accordingly, Friedrich was summoned to the rescue and stood the entire night with hundreds of others on the chilly stones of Max-Joseph-Platz in order to get seats. There is a rule that not more than three tickets can be sold to one of these men. The places in the gallery cost two marks [ 95 ]
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(fifty cents) and the JDienstmann demands, for standing all night, generally four marks. It is divided among the trio, so they get their places for about eighty cents. This price is the exception, however ; ordinarily one pays but thirty-five cents for a seat at this altitude.
When it comes to sitting in the balcony or orchestra one finds that the fabulous stories which one hears in America about the cheapness of opera are grossly exag- gerated.
44 Why, opera costs nothing over there ! ” you hear. 4 4 One can go for a song ! ”
As a matter of fact, the seats in the first balcony generally cost two dollars, an orches- tra seat a dollar and a half, and very often these prices are considerably increased.
Is there anything more exquisite than the first act of the 44 Rheingold,” more bewitch- ing than those elusive daughters of the Rhine, more perfect than the enchantment of those rippling chords ? The whole scene is a flawless poem. When it came to the second act, however, my indomitable sense [96]
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of humor rose to the surface. You have heard that adage, have n’t you, “ Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone ” ? I have proven satisfac- torily that the first part is a fallacy pure and simple — at least in Germany. Was I at fault because when I first heard the giant motif I smiled ? Am I to be condemned because I had to smother a laugh when Mimi rolled over and over on the stage, and shrieked forth a ridiculous 44 A ugh ! ” as in a fit of indigestion ? And the giants were such wild -looking creatures with grotesque tufts of hair on the crown of their heads — should I have taken them more seriously ? Apparently, if I am to judge from the de- meanor of the audience, who never changed their expression during the entire opera. And, after all, there are a good many people at home who think to regard one bar of Wagner without reverential seriousness is sacrilege. Yet 44 to thine own self be true,” Cecilia, and so I make no defence. What need when I am writing to one who Under- stands ?
7
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The spring motif of 4 4 The Valkyrie ” is the incarnation of tenderness and eternal freshness, and the climax of the whole opera seems to me simply colossal. Briinnhilde, sung by Senger-Bettaque, was convincing and forceful. Her supposedly fiery steed, a raw-boned black creature who looked suffi- ciently mild for children to drive, was reluc- tantly dragged in, licking sugar in a most obvious fashion from the corners of his mouth. Even a sturdy and belligerent Briinnhilde, it seems, must at times yield to puerile means in order to gain her point. Later the war-maiden was seen scudding through the sky on a snow-white charger, so I judged she must have been fortunate enough to exchange her apathetic beast during the course of the opera. Fricka was sung by Fraulein Fremstad, whose Carmen, I hear, has made quite a furore. The whole thing was splendidly given, and in the last act I gleaned considerable knowledge about the bass tuba which comes in here so often, just as in the “ Rheingold ” I marked the growl- ing themes for ’cello and double basses.
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Monday .
Well, it’s all over, that wonderful Ring! “ Siegfried ” came on Thursday, and Knote, whom I had previously heard as Tristan, sang the title role. At the end of the first act the audience fairly went wild with en- thusiasm. Oh, that wonderful bit of orches- tration where Mimi speaks of fear ! And that perfect effect of the bird-voice in the Waldweben , singing in the clarinet above the strings, while the horn note, pianissimo , gives that poignant touch of color which only the brain of a master could conceive.
The dragon, which Herr Martens tells me is generally a small affair, was horrible and immense enough for any one. I positively trembled when he poured forth clouds of steam from his gaping jaws, and disclosed a throat of red fire. The bass tuba makes a grand worm. I never realized what it was to hear a worm crawl before. But in spite of the wonders of the work, I wish it were shorter. My head was frightfully tired en- deavoring to follow the countless inter- L 99 ]
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woven themes. But then, this is my first hearing of it all, and perhaps another time I might change my opinion.
What a stupendous climax Gotterddm- merung is to the whole Ring ! The prel- ude is perfect, and I can imagine no more dramatic moment than that when Siegfried drinks to Briinnhilde in the fatal draught. Never shall 1 forget the grandeur of the music at the breaking of day, before the en- trance of the hero, and the stirring sound of those eight horns ; nor will that last grand picture of Valhalla fade from my mind for many moons.
It seemed as though half the American colony had turned out for the Ring, for we continually met people we knew at the in- termissions. There is always a pause of twenty minutes at some time between the acts. Why, you inquire ? My dear Cecilia, a German would never think of existing two hours without refreshment, much less four ; consequently there is n’t a theatre or opera house in all Germany which does not contain a restaurant. To be sure, it is [100]
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rather a come-down to discover Professor B , whom you saw a moment ago en-
thralled by the strains of the Waldweben , now prosaically munching a ham-sandwich and drinking beer in a corner of the cafd, as though his soul had never been stirred be- yond the excitement of choosing what he should order for dinner. But that is the German temperament, and one soon gets used to it.
There is the “ Siegfried ” bird-call running through my head again ! Is it that which the fountain — my fountain, as I claim it now — sang to me as I passed to-day ? Or did I myself unconsciously hum the melody and hear in the ripple of the falling water the soft rhythm of accompanying ’cellos and violins ?
December 15.
Christmas is in the air, and every street- corner has bloomed into a miniature forest of trees. These are fastened in squares of wood, and stand up straight and proud. As a rule some strange, bent old woman pre- [101]
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sides over them, and out of curiosity to-day I stopped in Odeons-Platz and inquired the price of a particularly plump little tree.
“ One mark fifty ” (thirty-seven and a half cents), quavered the dame, “ but they run up as high as fifteen marks.”
The poor soul looked so disappointed as I, after thanking her, turned away, that I simply could not resist going back — least of all at Christmas time. There was nothing to buy but trees, so I picked out the plump little one which had first attracted my atten- tion. She wa^ delighted and beamed at me as I started off with it dragging behind me from under my arm, for my hands were full of music books. I had not the slightest idea what to do with my new possession. I had just made up my mind to leave it at some one’s door, when who should come trudging along through the snow but the Hausmeis- ter’s little boy. He was on his way home from school, with his books strapped to his back in one of these curious black knapsacks which all the school children carry. I thrust the tree into his arms, with the assurance [ 102 ]
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that it was for him, and left him, wholly be- wildered, hugging it tightly to his breast.
When I reached the corner I turned to see him still standing there and gazing after me from between the branches with an ex- pression of astonishment and delight. I waved my hand, and at last he moved and gave a sign with his red mitten. Then he turned and ran towards home as fast as his fat legs could carry him.
The shops, with one exception, are not nearly as finely decorated as ours at home. This exception is the sausage-store, which is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. To be frank, a sausage had never impressed me as a particularly artistic creation, nor had I been wont to regard it as a species of deco- ration until Germany unfolded to me its many possibilities. Could you but see one of these windows, hung with long ropes, the links of which are large Frankfurters joined together by a band of green, you would not fail, I am sure, to admire the intricacy of the designs and the striking originality with which the small sausages are inter- [ 103 ]
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spersed with the larger ones so as to produce the most surprising effects ! Who ever as- sociated sausages with anything so idyllic as a waterfall ? Yet here you have a wooden mill, high up on an improvised hill, and over the wheel flow down streamers of sausages to mass in a lake below. Who ever thought of connecting them with the legends of the Middle Ages ? Yet Herr Schmidt, at the corner, has constructed the most marvel- lous tower out of sausages laid crisscross, with openings for little windows, with a turret on the very top, with a flag wav- ing proudly on the highest peak, and most wonderful of all, with a drawbridge securely fastened over a moat of parsley.
Everybody gives every one else some little remembrance for Christmas, and we are rack- ing our brains to think of things appropriate for those at the pension. The clerks in the shops help one out all they can. You have no idea how courteous they are. Always on entering they say 44 Good day ” and the proprietor comes up with 44 How can I serve you, gnadigcs Fraulcin ? ” Then they will [ 104 ]
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pull down all the goods in the store, bring out hidden boxes from under the counters, and even send outside for something they have not got, remaining perfectly satisfied if you only purchase something. If you buy nothing, however politely you may regret that the silk does not match, or the lace bear the required pattern, they plainly show their displeasure in their faces.
We are always politely escorted to the door by a clerk, who bids us good by. Often in the smaller stores it is amusing to hear the chorus of farewells which fol- low us. Last week Polly and I had coffee at one of these fascinating Conditorei , or little bake-shops which one finds here every- where. For an absurdly small sum we had a table to ourselves, coffee enough for a dozen, and the most delicious cakes you ever ate ! When we had finished, I started to leave some Trinkgeld for the waitress, who had served everything in the daintiest fashion.
“ Fifty pfennigs ! ” said Polly, looking at the coin that I had laid on the table.
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“ I felt I ought to give more, but they told me ” I began.
“ More ! ” exclaimed Polly. “ I never heard of such a thing ! Don’t you know that ten pfennigs (two cents and a half) for each person is considered quite sufficient ? ”
Polly has lived here longer than I, and has absorbed the idea that a pfennig — a fifth of a cent — is a pfennig, and not to be lightly treated. Accordingly I laid the sum on the table. The waitress swept the money into the black leather bag which she wore about her waist just as Kathie does in Alt- Heidelberg, and expressed her thanks repeatedly as she opened the door for us to pass out.
“ JBitte, verehren uns wieder /” (Please honor us again) said the proprietor from her desk.
66 Adieu, meine JDamen,” cried the waitress at the table in the corner, while our little maid poured forth a continual sing song of “ Danke sehr, meine Damen . Besten Dank / Habe die Ehre ! ” (I have the honor) until we were out on the street.
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Polly and I looked at each other and laughed.
“ Don’t fancy it was the effect of the tip,” said she. 6 They go through the same pro- gram for half the money. I always give ten pfennigs and have never missed a word.”
She laughed again gaily, for she is once more quite happy inasmuch as the “ poet on the floor below ” has been suddenly called to Stuttgart. A drama of his has been accepted there, and he was so over- come with joy that he withdrew his com- plaint and told Polly she might “ bang away” till he returned.
“ And now come down to the Schliissel Bazar with me,” she said, tucking my hand coaxingly under her arm. “ I want you to help me select a gift.”
There is no more fascinating place for a Christmas shopper than the Bazar, but I glanced at the clock on the Theatiner church.
“ I really can’t, Polly,” I said ; “ there is a chorus rehearsal at five, the last before the concert, and I must hurry along this minute or I shall be late.”
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So we parted, and I wended my way quickly through the fast-gathering dusk, past the Feldernhalle, which never looks more imposing than when half concealed in the mystery of shadows, across the busy Platz, now twinkling with countless lights, by the statue of Lewis the First, and in at the door of the old Conservatory itself.
December 18.
To-day came the Probe in the big hall for the concert next week. The regular Con- servatory chorus has been enlarged by a number of new voices, some of which are shrill enough to pierce through the dome itself. I came home utterly exhausted, for we were kept singing and standing three hours, and never in the annals of conducting was there a more wretched rehearsal. For the first time I saw a new side of Stavenha- gen ; he literally raged, but instead of making himself ridiculous he was positively majestic. To be sure, he got very red in the face, and his blond, curly hair, through which he despairingly thrust his hands, was much [108]
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awry, but he stamped about on his bit of platform so ferociously, shook his baton so threateningly, and shouted his commands in such sonorous German that I trembled in my American shoes.
W e sang first Liszt’s “ Excelsior.” Why is it that the most shrinking, retiring, and timid-appearing member of an orchestra is always the one to play the instruments of percussion ? One can easily imagine a stout, muscular creature presiding at the kettle- drums, but when we come to look for him we discover him at the end of the line of flutists, playing the piccolo. The eternal law of opposites is, T suppose, as applicable here as elsewhere. An unusually meek man was to manage the bells which play such an im- portant part in this work, and he continu- ally came in half a beat late. Stavenhagen glared at him darkly, tried him several times, and then gave it up as hopeless. The chorus attacks were frightful, and each part sang at its own sweet will.
The Brahms Requiem began more auspi- ciously, and as the beautiful first movement, [109]
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which we really sang well, went on, the director’s tense expression softened, and he relaxed into his usual easy beat, hand on hip. At the close, where the sopranos end with the pianissimo phrase, “ selig sind ” (blessed), and the tenors come in yet fainter after them, and the whole thing dies away as might the distant notes of a celestial choir, we were gratified to hear him murmur “ Sehr sclion!” He praised us, too, for the second movement. Is n’t it magnificent when the whole chorus sing in unison that grand, broad theme, “ Dcnn alles Fleisch ist wie Gras ” (Behold all flesh is as grass) ? And then the tender melody, “ So seid nur geduldig ” (Therefore be patient), which follows ! It nearly swept me off my feet. Let critics say what they will, I love the work, and think perhaps, after all, Mr. Huneker is right in saying that Brahms is the first composer since Beethoven to sound the note of the sublime.
We were just congratulating ourselves on getting through very creditably, when alas ! we stumbled upon the pitfalls and f 110]
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snares of that most difficult of fugues, “ Dcr Gerecliten Seelen ” (The righteous souls). There is a bit of it where the tempo is amaz- ingly tricky, and T remember no place, even in Bach’s B minor Mass, so difficult to sing well. The girl beside me, who had a high, shrill voice, insisted on coming in a measure too soon, and this repeated mistake set our director’s nerves on edge.
“ Die Erste Sopran ! Die Erste Sopran ! ” (The first soprano !) he cried' shaking his baton at our corner. Over and over we sang the same bars, but never once perfectly. Finally he threw down his stick, and with a desperate 66 A eh, Gott /” put his hands over his ears.
The chord broke off abruptly. The orchestra, plainly very bored, carelessly examined their instruments. The other members of the chorus looked at us re- proachfully. W e looked anywhere we dared. The first sopranos were in disgrace.
After what seemed an interminable silence, in reality about half a minute, Stavenhagen picked up his baton and said calmly, sternly, [111]
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his voice cutting the stillness, “ We will go on.”
Well, we got through somehow, but it was after eight o’clock when I ran down the snowy street back to the pension. The family were at supper and the anxious face of Mutterclien looked relieved as I opened the door.
“ W e thought you were lost, is n’t it ? ” said the Herr Doktor, in what he considered unimpeachable English.
Fraulein Hartmann, looking charming in a light-blue gown which she had donned in honor of Lieutenant Blum, her aunt’s guest that evening, jumped up and ran to meet me.
“ I ’m so glad you are here safe,” said she. To her the idea of a girl being out alone after six o’clock was almost inconceivable.
“ I myself was on the point of going in search of gnadiges Fraulein ,” said Lieu- tenant Blum, with a low bow, much rattling of sword, and that sneering smile which even his great black mustache fails to conceal. That was indeed kind of you, Herr [112]
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Lcutnant ,” I replied as sweetly as possible. “You really didn’t think me lost, or kid- napped, or perchance murdered in cold blood, did you ? ” I added to M Utter chen, as I took my seat.
“ I might have thought even such frightful things as those, had not our friend opposite insisted that you had been detained and that there was no need of ‘ putting up my um- brella till it rained,’ ” she answered.
I looked gratefully across the table at the Poet’s Wife, who smiled understanding^ back. Hers is one of those sunny, unselfish natures which, “ when they have passed the door of Darkness through,” leave the world a better place than they found it.
The serenity of perfect poise is such an enviable thing to possess ! Alas, that it is so seldom found in people of a musical tem- perament ! I can hardly imagine a placid Tsehaikowsky or an unruffled Dvorak, can you?
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Christmas Day.
Andante.
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht !
Alles schlaft, einsamwacht,
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar,
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh\
Can you see us as we stood on Christmas Eve in the quaint dining-room singing to- gether the old carol which has rung throughout Germany on this night for cen- turies gone by ? We formed a strange con- gregation — all wanderers from different parts of the globe, for once united by the Christmas spirit. There were eleven of us in all, — the Baron and Baroness with Karl between them, their rosy, good-natured faces sober and reverential ; Herr Doktor, standing near, his critical expression soft- ened as, under the spell of the song, his thoughts turn to his Paris hearthstone ; Frau von Waldfel, forgetting, in the mean- ing of the hour, to wonder what sort of [114]
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goodies we were to have for dinner ; Frau- lein Hartmann, lost in a dream, at her side ; the Poet and his sweet-faced wife, holding each other by the hand as they joined firmly in the refrain ; Herr Martens, aban- doning his student airs to add a tenor, and last — but best of all — Mutterchen. I sat at the piano to play the accompaniments, where I could see not only them, but catch a glimpse of the servants who stood to- gether outside in the hall. They were all arrayed in their best. Georg, especially gorgeous in the splendor of a new livery with fully six dozen brass buttons, stood in the front row. Next him was the cook, resting her hand on the head of her little girl, who had been granted leave from the convent to attend this gala occasion. The other servants crowded together behind them. For this one evening in the year caste was forgotten, and the Baroness’s strong soprano joined with the alto of her maid as they led the rest in the hymn each had sung from childhood.
All went well till we reached the second [115]
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verse. Then 1 heard Herr Martens voice tremble, then break, then cease altogether. Poor fellow ! his family is scattered over two continents, and for him the word Home is associated only with a sense of forlornness and loss. Gretchen, our own little maid, but a year away from the Bava- rian Highlands, hid her face on Therese’s shoulder. I looked at Miittcrchen bravely singing, but I knew in my heart that she was thinking of Home. The picture of those around the table across the sea flashed across me and I felt an odd tightening at my throat.
It was only for a moment — this shadow of sadness on us all. Then it suddenly van- ished, for at the last note the Baron flung open the double doors of the salon and ah ! what a bewildering, fascinating, wonderful tree was revealed ! Karl and I exchanged glances with satisfied smiles. We were proud of our work. The hours of labor in the morning spent in tying on the vari- colored balls, in hanging the tinsel favors, in arranging the silver shower had not been in [116]
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vain. It was indeed a marvellous shower, delicate, fairy-like, falling from the very top- most bough, where stood the figure of the Christ-child with outstretched hands as if to bless those below.
For a moment we were breathless with admiration. Then “ All for the presents together,” shrieked Karl in glee, “ Eins , zwei, drei ! ” and in we went.
Along the sides of the room ran tables covered with a white cloth and trimmed with evergreen. On these the gifts were laid, not done into parcels, but tastefully arranged. Each person had his own partic- ular group, and over it hung a bough of green and a basket of cakes and candy. In one comer was a large table for the servants. Mutterclien and I could not help smiling to hear the flood of joyous exclamations on every side as we examined our presents. The German language seems to have an endless supply of adjectives expressive of de- light. There are thousands of them, ranging from the sonorous grossartig , with the pro- longed rolling of the rs, to that overwhelm- [117]
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ing one which has such a wealth of emphasis on the last syllable, kol-os-sal! When they are all, as it were, turned on together, the effect is torrential !
After we had looked at our gifts and ad- mired those of every one else, and the ser- vants, beaming with happiness, had shaken hands and expressed their thanks, we went into the dining-room. Of course there was a Bowie and we drank, standing, a toast to “ Merry Christmas.” Then we played a lot of games, which although childish afforded us much amusement. Lieutenant Blum, with mustache more marvellously twisted than ever, came in and joined us, and later Edith and Louise with a lieutenant of the Second Regiment appeared. Just before twelve we all set off for St. Michael’s to attend the midnight mass.
The great cathedral was crowded when we entered, and we could only find places in the chancel on the left of the altar. Thus we had a good view down into the church itself, and by the flickering light on the pil- lars dimly discerned the vast crowd kneeling [H8]
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in the pews, blocking the aisles, and occu- pying every portion of available space. Be- yond them and above hovered mysterious shadows. It was almost oppressively silent. Only the footsteps of those entering broke the intense stillness. The sound, dying away in weird echoes high up beneath the vaulted roof, made the silence which fol- lowed more absolute.
Suddenly the big bell on the Frauenkirche began to toll in wonderful, mighty throbs. At the same moment, from above among the shadows, floated down the sound of music — exquisite strains of Palestrina. The door on our left opened and a long line of priests entered, clad in magnificent robes of white and gold. We all fell on our knees in the semi-darkness, our eyes turned towards the high altar, which alone gleamed like a gorgeous jewel beneath the rays of a hundred tapers. The impressive service began.
Through hazy clouds of incense I gazed down on the kneeling, worshipping crowd, kneeling and worshipping just as thousands [119] ‘
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of other throngs were doing at that very hour, here in far-off Germany, in France, in Italy, and across the sea. The marvellous, beautiful meaning of it all stirred me. My mind turned back through the ages to that night in the dusky stable of Bethlehem. Surely it is the wonder of all wonders that one Life — one brief, mortal Life, lived among millions of other lives — now after the passing of centuries stands out as the sole link uniting all Christendom.
Lost in the beauty of the service with its lights and incense and music and gold-decked priests, it was with a start that I awakened as it were from a spell when the music ceased, and the priests had filed out through the arched door. The cathedral felt sud- denly damp and chill, and shivering, I pulled my cloak around me.
“ I did n’t care for the organist’s selection at all,” said Polly critically, as we turned to go.
“We must walk as quickly as possible or we shall all be ill for a week with colds from sitting so long in this damp church,” added Edith in her emphatic way.
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But the Poet’s Wife said nothing. She only looked at me with her deep, unfathom- able eyes, and pressed my hand gently. Sometimes she reminds me of you, Cecilia. She is one of the few in the great world who Understand.
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HE HAPPIEST OF NEW
Years to you, Cecilia ! Have you
ever been among the mountains in winter ? Have you ever run away on a holiday to a quaint little town nestling in the valley, and wandering through narrow streets and climbing up snowy roads for- gotten that such tilings as canons or double counterpoint exist ? If not, Cecy mia , get out your hood and fur coat and start ! But before you go, let me tell you that I have a deep-rooted conviction : namely, that you can find no more entrancing spot on the globe than Meran. For Meran, you must know, lies exclusively apart from the rest of the world, deep down in the valley of the Adige and jealously guarded on every side by high mountains, like a jewel in a casket. The mountains themselves, covered with snow from base to summit, are so magnificent and stirring that I call them Wagner mountains. And oh ! the sunset on their frosty peaks,
Meran, January 1 , 1903.
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when all the white is changed to rose — it beggars description.
We left Mimchen on Christmas Day — just after my writing you. All the pension- naires and servants came to the carriage and bade us good by with much hand-shaking and expressing every possible good wish for a pleasant journey, just as if we were to be gone a year instead of ten days. Can you imagine spending Christmas riding through the Brenner Pass ? Let me tell you, too, there never can be anything more marvel- lous than this same Brenner Pass in winter. There has been a heavy storm for some days and it left the whole country half buried in a white cloak. Snow, snow everywhere, covering every mountain, stretch of valley, and hill ! It is a grand sight. We were so enchanted with the scenery that we forgot to mourn the lack of holiday festivities. Then, too, we did have one important fea- ture of the season, for it only needed a glance out of the windows to discover a Christmas tree. Indeed we were in the midst of a whole forest of them, only in [126]
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place of tinsel and spangles we had the lovelier decoration of pure snow, and instead of brilliantly colored favors, from every branch hung pendants of flashing ice, which, like finely cut gems, reflected the sunlight in flashes of all the colors of the rainbow.
On the train who should chance to be in
the next compartment but Miss B from
California, one of the students at the Con- servatory. We had a delightful chat over music. She is studying with Krause, and told me quite a little about him. She says he is very erratic in his teaching and never gives a lesson twice alike. Sometimes he paces up and down the room while the pupil is playing. Often he gazes abstractedly out of the window for fully a quarter of an hour, saying nothing. Again, he stands with his back to the stove, hands behind him, appar- ently listening ; then suddenly darts out of the room and does not return for twenty minutes.
“ When he teaches Beethoven it is a dif- ferent story,” she went on. “ He likes to do that better than anything. He draws [ 127]
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up a chair and sits close beside the pupil, following every note. The slightest mistake is not overlooked. It’s a fearful ordeal ! ” We changed cars at Bozen, for only a single branch road, winding through the picturesque valley of the Adige, connects Meran with civilization. On our arrival we found the heartiest of welcomes from our
friends the S s who were at the station.
We drove at once to their home, which is called 44 Villa Pomona,” and is situated on the hill overlooking the town. The servants greeted us at the gate, and the dogs came bounding out with enraptured barks. Turn- ing into the path leading to the house I had my first good look at the villa. It is square, and constructed of yellowish stone. Between the windows are frescoes represent- ing the goddess of plenty, the graces, etc. A terrace runs around it. It reminds one, in a way, of the Pompeian houses. Inside, it is no less charming, and oh ! so de- lightfully American in its furnishings and arrangement ! The only discord in the harmony are the German porcelain stoves, [128]
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but one can’t have everything and live in the heart of the Austrian Tyrol too.
We breakfast in the loveliest room up- stairs. The windows command such an inspiring view that one almost forgets to eat. Below lies the valley itself with its one church spire and its mass of quaint, low yellow buildings huddled to- gether ; on the heights at the right rises an old, crumbling tower, the remnant of a once splendid castle ; on the left stretches out the valley, and far away there in the dis- tance, so far that the blue of the sky be- comes misty, one sees the first spurs of the Dolomites which guard the gateway into Italy. On every side rise these majestic mountains of snow, whose peaks look as if cut out by a giant knife, and laid against the background of an intensely blue sky.
When we have finished breakfast we generally take a walk to town. Our ob- jective point is the post-office, but we would accept almost any pretext to wander down the hill and join the crowd strolling in the sunshine on the Gisela Promenade. The [129]
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Promenade lies across the river, for an im- petuous little stream cuts the village into two sections. Accordingly, at the foot of the hill we cross the most picturesque of stone bridges and find ourselves at once on the broad walk, which, lined with fine old poplars, runs straight along the bank of the river. At eleven o’clock the walk is crowded. Meran is not only a fashionable resort in winter, but a favorite spot for invalids on account of the perfection of its climate. One sees them always on the Promenade at this time, walking slowly up and down, leaning back in wheel chairs, listening to the music of an excellent Capelle , as they call the orchestra, which plays here daily. If the weather happens to be cold, which is seldom the case, the music can be enjoyed in the luxurious Cur- haus especially built for the purpose.
It was just by the band-stand, in the delightful sunshine of our second morning here, that I had the pleasure of meeting Carl Zerrahn. You remember the time when he was such a prominent conductor and [ 130 ]
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musician in Boston, do you not ? We had sat down to rest and hear the music when
Mr. S pointed to the tall, commanding
figure of an elderly man slowly approaching.
“ Here comes Zerrahn,” he said ; “ he is, alas, almost blind now, and cannot recognize any one except at close range.”
A thrill of sadness swept over me, as I recalled him as the first conductor I ever saw, standing on the stage at the old Music Hall and sweeping the Handel and Haydn Society along in those great choruses of the “Messiah” and “Elijah.” His hair is now snow white, and his walk feeble, but he stands as proudly erect as when he wielded the baton in the height of his success.
He did not perceive us approaching, although the members of the Capelle , who all knew him, watched us curiously. When we were within a few feet of him, we intro- duced ourselves as old friends whom he had, perhaps, by this time forgotten. It was charming to see his frank delight in meet- ing us again and in learning news of Boston, which he loves very dearly.
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“ I am staying with my son here,” he said, “ but I feel that Boston is my home, and I shall go back there in a year or so. I worked and lived and grew in Boston. It is to me what no other city is.”
He asked about the Handel and Haydn Society, inquired about my musical studies and the Munich opera, and was so thoroughly kindly and interested in everything pertain- ing to his art that I could not but think of Victor Hugo’s lines, 44 There are no wrinkles on the heart.”
In the afternoon we go driving over some of these countless roads about Meran. It is like travelling through a magnificent picture gallery. The other day we went shopping. You never saw anything so fascinating as the stores. The principal ones are in the “ Lauben ,” the quaintest of streets, whose sidewalks are built under arcades. When we enter, the girl in attendance always says “ Kuss* die Hand” The first time I heard this I frankly put out my hand to be kissed. A laugh from them all made me blushingly draw it back again. I learned that even [ 132 ]
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here in this cool sequestered vale of the Adige people do not say what they mean. It seems the proper thing to murmur “Kuss die Hand” but no one but a servant would ever think of actually doing it. It is a sort of 4 4 take the will for the deed ” arrangement.
The prettiest thing happened here this New Year’s morning. We were all sitting in Mr.
S ’s study hearing the latest American
paper (two weeks old) read aloud, when there came a rap at the door. A moment later the gardener, his wife, and two little girls entered, dressed in their holiday clothes. They all bowed solemnly. Then the parents withdrew to the background, the father nervously turning his cap around in his brown hands, while his wife, in true German fashion, held the bundle, a huge thing clumsily done up in white paper. The older of the two little girls, who could not have been more than five, shyly advanced. In a high, ex- cited voice she recited a little poem about the New Year. Her sister, no less thrilled by the occasion, recited very rapidly two more verses about Freude (joy) and Gluck (hap- [ 133 ]
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piness). As a finale they together took the bundle and with the prettiest of courtesies
handed it to Herr and Frau von S ,
“with best wishes for a happy New Year and many thanks for their kindness.” The
S s were much pleased and touched
by this charming simplicity. The package proved to be a beautiful plant of azaleas, and the whole quartet were radiant with delight as we passed the gift among us and praised its beauty. They went away with many bows,
looking, oh ! so happy, and Mrs. S
ordered an extra supply of beer for them in the kitchen.
That reminds me of a curious custom here. Did I tell you that a servant is engaged at so
much a week with beer ? 1 Mrs. S says
the maids make a dreadful uproar if their beer is not forthcoming, and the cook insists on several bottles a day. I should think this might be detrimental to the cooking, but
Air. S assures me that it has quite the
contrary effect, and the more beer she drinks the better she cooks.
1 Also an English custom.
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This afternoon we took a long drive, re- turning through the town, so I had a fine chance to see the peasants in gala array. Near a wayside shrine (one finds them every- where here) we came upon a crowd of young peasants sitting on the stone wall, or leaning lazily against it smoking meerschaum pipes. The splendor of their costumes was quite startling. Their funny little round hats, usually severely plain, were coquettishly decorated with bunches of yellow flowers fastened on the brim at the back. Their coats and trousers were of corduroy. Most noticeable of all were their waistcoats of scarlet or bright green.
“ They seem to have very pronounced tastes,” I remarked. “ Is n’t it odd that some of them choose red and the others choose green, as if they belonged to a college team ? ”
“ There is method in their madness,”
answered Mr. S laughingly. “ A much
more serious matter than a question of taste is at stake. Let me inform you immediately, my dear young lady, that those whom you see before you in red waistcoats are married [135]
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men, while those in green are bachelors and in the market, so to speak. It strikes me as not a half-bad idea. Surely a girl can’t innocently fall in love with the wrong man here.”
“ Unless she is color-blind,” I added.
It is time for supper, and as Mrs. S
has promised us a real American meal I don’t want to risk being a second behindhand. No one can realize what that means — a real American meal — unless one has been living for four months on a German pension diet. Why, after so many foreign menus, I feel like the poor soul who “near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.” Yesterday we actually had muffins for breakfast. Think of that when one is living in a country where the mere hint of hot bread or ice water calls forth the remark, “I do not see why all you Americans don’t die of indigestion.”
I can’t get it out of my head that the officer I met on the Promenade this morning was Lieutenant Blum. He passed by with a number of other officers and several
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showily dressed women, all talking and laughing loudly. It is quite possible that he might have come down here on leave, but hardly probable under the circumstances. I did not get a full look at his face. It was the swaggering walk and the little fat hand raised to salute a brother officer that made me start and look again. By that time he had almost passed. Nonsense ! Probably this very minute he is at the pension ac- cepting a cup of tea from Fraulein Hart- mann’s slender hands, while Frau von W aldfel from behind the urn regards him with admiring glances, for of course the Fraulein is not allowed to see him alone. That would be a frightful breach of etiquette. W ell, I will let you know when I return. For her sake, I rather hope I was mistaken.
Innsbruck, January 3 .
Yesterday we regretfully left Meran, but the memory of our delightful stay there will long haunt us, and we are living in hopes of another visit to this earthly par- adise. We reached Innsbruck at three [137]
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o’clock, and by four found ourselves here, in this most fascinating of houses — for, Cecilia, we are actually living, eating, sleeping in a castle, a real, bona fide castle, once the hunting lodge of the Emperor Maximilian. I see you start and your eyes glow. “ A fig for music ! ” you say ; “ Let me live in your castle.” Yes, you who so revel in medievalism, to whom the glimpse of faded tapestries and dulled armor is as so much wine, would surely be in your element here.
How this former resort of knights and retainers sank to the materialistic, twentieth- century level of a pension I have not yet learned, nor cared to. All I know is that the grand old dining-room, hung with ancient portraits of the royal house, still remains ; that the carved balconies with their worn railings overlooking the rushing stream of the Inn, the narrow winding corridors, the high diamond-paned windows, the picturesque terrace, the goblets, beakers, and trophies of the hunt are yet here — decaying relics of a brilliant past.
This morning I discovered the crowning [ 138 ]
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feature beneath this most enchanting of roof-trees. Leaving Mutterclien to toast her feet by the fire, I went in search of a book in the library. In the many twistings and turnings of the corridors I lost my way. At length I found myself at the top of a short flight of steps, and thinking this was only another way to the library, I walked down them and along the hall. A worn door was at the end. I pushed it open and entered. For a moment the darkness of the place blinded me, coming as I had from the brightness of the outer house. Then I saw more clearly there were people, yes, actual, live people, kneeling on the stones and telling their beads within touch of my hand. No one noticed me as I stood by the door. As I looked about me I saw that I was in a chapel all of stone. Before me was an altar decorated garishly with paper flowers. The light of the sacrament burned dimly above, and cast a shadow on the rough crucifix hanging near. A few rays of sun- light sifting in through the high window at the farther end of the room sent a [139]
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shattered shaft across the heads of the peasants, who, absorbed in prayer, made no movement save to slip their beads along their rosaries. The suddenness of the change, the sense of awe in coming upon this one room, this one place set aside as a shrine in the very midst of a busy household, was startling. I felt myself an intruder, and noiselessly slipped away.
Upon inquiry at luncheon I discovered that it is the regular custom on fete days for the people of the village to climb up the hill and attend mass where the ruler of their fathers was wont to worship. On a second visit I discovered that on the right, just after entering the chapel, is a tiny square room which at a first glance looks like a cell. In the rough stones of the wall a square hole is cut, and beneath it is a bench to kneel upon. This place was the private oratory of the Emperor, and here he used to attend mass, receiving the sacrament through the orifice in the stones.
Can you imagine anything more fascinat- ing than living in a house where every nook [ 140 ]
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and corner is alive with memories of the past ? I could stay here for weeks, but vacation is over and we leave for Munich to-morrow.
January 11.
Here we are again in old Miinchen ! Every one in the pension expressed him or herself as delighted to see us back, with all that cordiality which is one of the most charming characteristics of the German nature.
I began again my lessons with Thuille on Wednesday. I had sent him at Christmas a little remembrance, as is the custom here. Naturally I expected he would thank me, but I was hardly prepared for what fol- lowed. As at his “ Herein ! ” I entered the smoke- wreathed studio, he tossed his cigar- ette into the waste-basket, jumped up from his desk, and with both hands extended came to meet me.
“ A eh ! gnadiges Frdulein ! ” he exclaimed, “ you were so kind to remember me in that charming way.” Then what do you think [141]
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he did ? He bent over my hand in the most dignified way and kissed it. T felt like an empress holding court, and blushed to the roots of my hair at the honor he had done me. I took my accustomed chair beside his at the piano, inwardly praying that it would not be my ill luck to push off to the floor any one of the dozens of cig- arettes which always lie carelessly strewn about. Then I placed my fugue on the music rack. Whatever I bring, be it sona- tina, invention, or merely a counterpoint exercise, Thuille daringly plays it out forte . This is so different from the way Mr. Chadwick does. He seldom if ever touches the piano when looking over work, but takes the sheet and leaning back in his chair “ hears it in his head,” marking the mistakes with a blue pencil. My fugue was pronounced recht gut , which made me very happy, for I had spent several hours over it. When Herr Professor had finished with my work he brought out a piece of music from the cabinet.
“ Here is a thing which is worth your
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while to study,” he said. It was Mozart’s Serenade in II fiat major for wind instru- ments, including the corno di bassetto and the contrafcigotto. If you want a task, try to play it from score at sight. Thuille rattled it off as though it were the simplest exercise. I could not repress a sigh when he had finished.
“ Acli Gott , my child ! ” he exclaimed, smiling at my hopeless expression ; “ 1 don’t expect you to play it now like that. Study the construction and the instrumentation. You will learn much from it.”
As I rose to go I noticed a number of loose manuscript sheets on his desk.
“ This is a new piece for orchestra I am doing,” said he.
A page of full orchestra score always fascinates me. It’s rather odd, when you stop to think of it, now isn’t it, that all those little black dots with tails to them represent actual sounds of different instru- ments and that they together produce an harmonic whole ? There is as much individ- uality in the writing of these dots as in [ 143]
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handwriting. Thui lie’s notes are very small, distinct, and closely written. Professor Paine has a large, firm hand. Chadwick’s notes appear as though hastily dashed off, although perfectly legible. I remember distinctly the day he showed me the score of his brilliant Symphonic Sketches. It looked interestingly complex, although, to tell the truth, what im- pressed me most were the original verses which preceded each sketch. They cleverly portray a definite mood, and are, as it were, the key to what follows. Never by any chance do these appear in the program book, so the listener is left to puzzle out for him- self just what the composer means to convey.
I am to begin soon to study overture form, and Thuille asked me to bring Beethoven’s overtures with me at my next lesson.
Later .
W e are both much struck with the change in Fraulein Hartmann. She is much paler than she was before we went to Meran, and flushes nervously at the least excitement. Miltterchen , who has the misfortune to be [ HI ]
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next to Frau von Waldfel at table, inquired if her niece were ill.
“ Indeed, no ! ” answered the Hungarian woman somewhat sharply. “ What can you expect when a girl betrothed to an officer makes ready for a grand wedding in the spring ? There is much to be done and dozens of gowns to be ordered. My niece is merely tired with the happiness of it all.”
At that moment I caught Fraulein Hart- mann exchanging a glance across the table with the Poet’s Wife. In that one, quick flash I read many things, for the eyes of the former betokened genuine distress, while the reassuring look which met hers was that of a sympathizing friend. A second later the Poet’s Wife was tactfully leading Frau von W aldfel to give her views on the new cooking-school, while Fraulein Hartmann abstractedly replied to the queries of a stout American woman who sat next her. This new arrival is merely here for a few days. She and her apologetic-appearing husband are “doing” Germany, Italy, and France complete in three weeks.
10 [ 145 ]
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“ I want ter know where those pictures of Reuben are. Baedeker stars ’em three times,” said the stout traveller, turning to me.
1 was longing to ask “ Reuben who ” ? but Mutterchen , evidently sensing my temp- tation, pressed my foot under the table ; so I merely said as politely as I could, “ I think you mean the pictures in the old Pinakothek by Rubens,” and gave them the directions to Barer-strasse. While they were commenting upon them, I wondered what could have happened during our ab- sence to make Fniulein Hartmann and the Poet’s Wife close friends. I wanted to ask if Lieutenant Blum had been at Meran, but intuitively I felt it best not to mention the subject. Here is indeed a romance to which I have found no key, as Omar would say.
The Conservatory is open again and everything is in full swing. In spite of the fact that I have very little opportunity to practise on the piano — because my work for Thuille requires the greater part of my time, [146]
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— I enjoy the lessons immensely. When we read at sight I find them especially inter- esting. We have been playing some splen- did things for two pianos, among them those lovely Schumann variations in B^7 major. If you don’t know them get them by all means. Yesterday we finished Brahms’ symphony in E minor, with its vigorous allegro giocoso , and have begun Liszt’s Symphonic Poems.
How everything helps everything else in music ! The orchestra reveals its nuances twice as clearly when one is familiar with the actual material of a work, and then in composition it is absolutely necessary to have a broad field of literature from which to draw models and examples.
Poor Frau Bianci is in a terrible state over my pronunciation of German. “It will go in speaking,” she says, “ but, ach Gott ! must be much finer for singing ! ” I managed to get Beethoven’s “ Kennst du das Land ? ” to suit her, but only after much toil for both of us. I repeated each phrase a dozen times after her before I was [147]
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allowed to sing it. Truly, I feel very young and irresponsible. Don’t talk about musical temperament and feeling to me ! My one idea is to get the vowels open enough and to pronounce these fiendish umlauts in the approved fashion. I fell down most shamefully on Schubert’s “ Mar- guerite at the Spinning-Wheel.” You know how wonderfully sad and beautiful that is. Bianci was quite pleased at my rendering of the first verse. Then I sang the second, where the music works up climactically and the words run,
“ Sein hoher Gang, sein’ edle Gestalt,
Seines Mundes Lacheln, seiner Augen Gewalt, Und seiner Rede Zauberfluss,
Sein Handedruck, und ach, sein Kuss ! ”
At this point Frau Bianci broke off playing, and leaned back in her chair with a sigh. Then she said with cutting sweetness of tone, “ The idea of this song is to make your audience cry, not to make them laugh. That word is Lacheln , Lacheln , Lacheln ! ”
I felt as though I had suddenly shrunk from Marguerite to a naughty child of five.
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Then a sense of rebellion stirred me. I wanted to tell her that I had not been born with a German throat, and that sueli tilings as umlauts were a disgrace to any language. However, I controlled myself and said nothing.
“ I think you had better go into Hofre- gisseur Muller’s class,” she said. “It will be of great benefit to you. Please attend to-morrow at nine o’clock.”
Very meekly I answered, “ Yes, Frau Professor,” as I picked up my music and went out, not having the faintest idea who Hofregisseur Muller was, nor what his sonorous title meant.
At nine the following day I was at the Conservatory. On the stairs I met Miss
P , a Philadelphia girl who is in my
piano class. She explained to me that Herr Miiller was the Regisseur, that is, the coach for acting at the opera house, and that his class was the Aussprache, or dramatic class, for the vocal students who were to sing in public. She herself is studying for opera and finds her work with him very beneficial. [ 149]
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“ But I ’m not going on the stage,” said I, quite startled. “What does one have to do?”
Miss P laughed at my distressed ex-
pression. “ Why, nothing but read before the class. Your pronunciation is corrected by Herr M tiller. It is just as good as a German lesson,” she said. “ Gh, by the bye, don’t mind if they laugh at you. They always laugh at foreigners.”
With this parting shot as my encourage- ment, I went in. The room, on the upper floor just opposite the hall where we have the chorus rehearsals, is large and barnlike. A grand piano stands in dignified solitude in the centre, and at the end, near the green porcelain stove, is a long table around which the class sits. Herr Muller has his place at the head. He is an interesting type of man, very portly, with snow-white hair and mustache, and a pair of noticeably keen, speculative eyes. The appreciation of the humorous is strongly marked on his broad features.
“ Eine A merikancrin ! ” he said, smiling, [150]
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as I came in. It is odd how quickly the people here detect our nationality. He motioned me to a chair, then slowly drew a large watch from his pocket and laid it on the table before him.
“Well, Fraulein, what have you?” he inquired of the first girl on his left, who promptly handed him the “ Bride of Mes- sina” and going to the farther end of the room began to recite shrilly a passage by heart. At every line the Herr Hegisseur would thunder forth criticisms in his great, vibrant voice. When her turn, which lasted five minutes, was past, he called on the next girl, a soft-voiced, shrinking creature in a low-necked blouse. She murmured halt- ingly that she had “ Das Veilchen ” (The Violet). “ A ch! Das Veilchen /” lisped he, with his head on one side, in the same tremu- lous tones. The imitation was such a capital one that we all laughed. In the bare room the effect was that of a hilarious whoop. I began to see what was in store for me. After a few wretched moments I determined to take the whole affair as a ioke. There [151]
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were nine girls to be called on before it came my turn, but in what seemed an incredibly short space of time they had all finished and Herr Muller was calling my name.
“ Recite one verse very slowly,” said he.
44 Meine Ruhe ist liin ” (My rest is o’er), I began bravely, feeling how poignantly ap- plicable the line was to my present situation. Throughout my recital I could plainly hear titterings from the girls, but I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the picture of Beethoven over the door. When I had finished, Herr Regisseur laid the book down on the table, leaned back in his chair, and laughed. The whole class joined with him. 'Not to be outdone, I laughed too, albeit somewhat weakly.
“ Now much louder and slower, Frdulein nus Amcrika ,” he said. “Repeat after me, 4 Meine Ruhe ist hin .’ ”
It was the same thing that I had tried with Frau Bianci, only now I enunciated every syllable with painful effort, my voice pitched to fortissimo.
“Not bad,” said he, when I had finished, [152]
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although his eyes twinkled. “ Learn another verse for next time.”
We all went over to the Gartner Platz Theatre last week to see “ The Geisha.” The little opera house is very cosy, but oh ! how strange “ The Geisha ” sounded in its new word-clothes ! From a musical standpoint it was delightfully given, but to my mind the Germans have not snap enough to pro- duce light opera well. We have seen two or three things there, among them Strauss’ charming Flcdermaus , and have invariably remarked the same thing. The chorus sang excellently, but were selected with absolutely no eye for beauty or grace. And how the Amazons did wear their armor ! They re- minded me more of tired waitresses after a hard day’s work than the spirited war-maidens they were supposed to represent. Sparkle, vivacity, delicacy, — all these elements which make light opera what it should be, — were lacking. I am convinced that God created the Germans for grand opera and that in the captivating froth of operettas they are distinctly out of their element. One wishes [153]
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he might look into the music of the future and see how the school of the versatile American will eventually evolve ; whether it will be individually characteristic, or blindly content to follow the path laid down by its forerunners across the sea.
There is splendid skating now in the Eng- lischer Garten. Last Saturday after lessons six of us met at the Sieges Thor with our skates. The ice on the G?~osse Hesselohe , the pond at the upper end of the garden, was in excellent condition. At the farther end of it the International Hockey Team, composed of men from the University of Munich and the Polytechnic, was having a match with some strangers. The Germans skate very well and seem devoted to the sport. This seems rather odd to me, as they do not as a rule care for outdoor exercise except walking. Golf is unknown as yet, and although they have a game which they call football, it would hardly be recognized by that name in our country.
We had a delightful afternoon and came back ravenous for supper.
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Friday.
I have n’t yet told you what a time I had
to get the candy S sent. It was the day
after your bountiful Christmas box came. By the bye, I trust you have received our ac- knowledgment of it by this time, and I want to tell you now that the plum pudding was not hurt a particle. The cook steamed it, and we invited all the pensionnaircs to share it with us at dinner. If you could have but heard their compliments, you or your cook would certainly have blushed with pride. Why, even Frau von Waldfel con- fessed that, after all, people did have some- thing good to eat in America, a fact she had never formerly believed. But about the candy.
In my morning’s mail I found a Legitima- tions-Karte. Does n’t that sound imposing, as though I had graduated with honors from some academy ? It really is nothing more than a statement that a package lies in the custom-house waiting to be called for. The office itself is in a large room [155]
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like a hall, and full of all sorts of bundles, boxes, and burlap bags, which look like the accumulation of years. The blue-bloused Dienstmann behind the counter found my box for me and cut the string, for which I, of course, gave him a tip. (You know nothing is free in Germany. We have to pay even for our programs at the theatre or opera.1)
Having concluded this first matter, I walked down a corridor and into the room on the right. Here I took my place at the end of a long line of people. It was certainly twenty minutes before I reached the scales, for all the packages are weighed, you know. With impressive dignity the burly man in charge leisurely weighed my box, recorded the number, and directed me into yet another room.
Accordingly I made my way to the desk where duties are registered. Here I waited again in line for some time. After all this red tape I fancied I should have to pay at least six marks, but when my turn came
A universal custom all over Europe.
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I found that only forty-five pfennigs were required before I could make my escape. As I began tying my box together yet another of these persistent officers accosted
me.
“Your number,” said he, as if I were a freshman taking an entrance examination. I stared at him, then recalled the red figures on my package.
“ Two hundred and two,” I said.
“You must step here,” he announced authoritatively.
I was so tired of stepping this way and that, that my first impulse was to refuse, but for fear that this might mean the sacri- fice of my real American candy, I followed him meekly into the next room, where he solemnly scribbled something in a big black book. Then, with a flourish which shook the gold fringe of his uniform, he handed me a paper.
“ That is all,” he said.
“ All ? ” I asked. Now that escape seemed so near 1 doubted its possibility.
“ That is all,” he repeated, with a low [157]
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bow. I turned on my heel and never slackened my pace till I was at the door of the pension. By this ridiculous pro- ceeding I had lost just two hours on my counterpoint. The candy, however, is wonderful ! I never tasted anything more refreshing. Certainly, Germany is no place for candy — nor for doing things quickly, either.
On the fifteenth came the first production in Germany of the French opera Messidor before a crowded audience at the opera house. The libretto is by Zola and the music by Bruneau. The work is typical of its school, especially in the orchestration. As in some of Massenet’s pieces, the trom- bones burst forth every few minutes, as if to say, “ Don’t fancy for a moment, kind public, that we have gone out for a glass of beer. We never miss but a few bars.” The so- called symphonic Lcgende vom G-oIde , a symbolic pantomime, if I may so call it, which opens the third act, struck me as unutterably tawdry, but the last scene had a perfectly charming setting, and the climax [158]
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was very effective. At the final curtain the composer was called out several times, but the opinion of the audience seemed to be divided, for although the applause was plentiful, continued hissing from the oppo- nents of the French school was distinctly audible. Bruneau is tall and slight, with black pointed beard and waxed mustache. He responded in several constrained little bows, as though charmed with the applause, and as if utterly unconscious of any less complimentary sounds.
We are hearing much talk of balls and frivolity, for the carnival is just begin- ning. Already the Baron is planning to make up a large party for something, and of course I shall write you all about it. Louise and Edith are coming over to do ear-training to-night at eight, and it is already time for supper, so this must end my letter for to-day. All good wishes for you.
M.
Do you know the “ Beethoven-Lied ” by Cornelius ? The greater part of it is com- [159]
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posed of the principal theme of the first movement of the Eroica Symphony. We sang it in the chorus hour on Thursday. I should think it might be a splendid thing for your club to work at.
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D GIVE EVERY PFENNIG IN
my possession to walk into your study
to-day and take you by surprise. In fact, I have stopped in the very midst of my orchestration lesson to tell you so. My chord of the seventh is unresolved, my flutes and oboes are hanging in midair, and my horns are blowing away on the fifth, all be- cause a wave of the Indescribable swept over me, and I simply had to throw down my pencil and talk to you !
The preliminary symptoms of this abomi- nable Something appeared this morning when my mail failed to arrive. Then after three hours’ hard work on a new fugue-subject, 1 came to the conclusion that what I had written was absolutely worthless, and thrust it in the waste-paper basket. In the after- noon no letters came, but several news- papers, whose essential feature consisted in describing varied and brilliant festivities at home. I could not repress a sigh as I read.
February 4*
Du liebes Cecilclien :
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Finally Georg came bowing in with the announcement that the opera for the even- ing had been changed and Der Freisckutz substituted for “ Lohengrin.” I felt like throwing my ink-well at the Obelisk, run- ning down to the booking office in Prom- enade-Platz, and engaging a passage to America on the spot.
Not that I was really angry with the Obelisk, for I have but one dearer friend in all Munich, and that is the Fountain. The latter, however, no longer sings as I pass. It has, as it were, retired for the season, and a hideous paling of gray boards hides it com- pletely from view. Such is the inartistic effect of winter. I can’t tell you how much I miss its ever sympathetic, ever beautiful voice. Indeed, so barren and desolate is the upper end of the Platz, that I changed my route of walking and thus came to make the acquaintance of the Obelisk. Not only do I pass by daily, but whenever I look out of my window I can see in the distance its slender, black shaft sharply outlined against the sky. Strange, is it not, with what a [ 164]
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keenly human note inanimate things some- times appeal to us ? J ust as I hear and love the Voice in the Fountain, so I draw a feeling of protection from this towering creation of stone, as though a kindly sentinel were standing guard over me and mine.
Since my mood to-day is gray in color, I am going to tell you of the gayest thing which has happened since I wrote, namely, a gorgeous masked ball, for you know it is carnival season now and frivolity reigns su- preme. I have been working so constantly lately — for my long lessons with Thuille and the work at the school take practically every moment of my time — that the ball seemed like an extraordinary piece of dissi- pation. Therefore I was quite excited as I joined the party of pensionnaires in the salon on Tuesday evening. What a cosmopolitan lot we were ! The curious jumble of German, French, Italian, and English was laughable. The stout American and her pocket-edition of a husband have departed and given place to two Italian women who converse equally well in three languages. The Poet’s Wife [165]
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always speaks perfect French with Herr Doktor, which won his heart long ago. Of course we were all chatting of the frolic to come as we clambered into the droschkies awaiting us at the door. The ball, it seems, was given under the auspices of the press. The Baron had obtained invitations for us through a member of the Jugend staff. (The Jugend is that very artistic periodi- cal which you have perhaps seen.) There were so many of us that a box had been engaged, for the affair was held at one of the theatres.
Every one who attended was obliged to wear a costume representing some feature pertaining to the woods, and it required no little thought to design something original and effective. Fraulein Hartmann and I had decided to go as flowers, and Mutter - chen and the Poet’s Wife put their heads together and created a Rose gown and a Violet gown. Frau von Waldfel was so agitated over her own costume that she quite forgot to criticise ours. She had chosen to represent a bee, and had arrayed herself [166]
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in black netting. On her head was a crown of black and yellow, and from her shoulders hung, or should have hung, a pair of gauze wings. But something went wrong, and the wings, instead of suggesting airy flittings through space, drooped at a curious angle _ and gave the impression that they were not mates. However, her distress was mitigated by the Baroness, who declared that the cos- tume was 4 4 wonderfully becoming,” and as soon as she arrived she forgot to worry about her wings in the excitement of the ball itself.
What a fascinating sight burst upon us as we stepped inside the ballroom ! The whole place was alive with a dancing crowd of fairies, gnomes, flowers, butterflies, and dry- ads, who flitted past in a bewildering whirl of ever changing color. All the women wore little black masks, which gave them a most coquettish appearance. The men were not masked, but their costumes were fully as artistic. As I watched the glittering throng moving to the strains of a fascinating waltz which came floating out from behind a grove [ 167]
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of evergreens on the stage, I could easily fancy I was in fairyland.
Just as we were about to cross the hall Fraulein Hartmann caught me by the arm.
“ I ’ve torn my gown,” she said in a hur- ried, excited manner, as she held up the ragged ruffle on the edge of her train. 44 I must go to the dressing-room and fix it. Will you tell my aunt ? And oh ! please say it may take twenty minutes or — or a half-hour.”
I looked at her in surprise. Her cheeks were flushed brilliantly, and I would have given much to have seen the expression of her eyes, which her mask half hid.
“ Why, if you would let me help you ”
I began, but she interrupted, pressing my arm tighter.
44 Let me go alone, please, hleine Ameri- kanerin .” Her voice was pleading and oddly intense. 44 It ’s only such a short time — and, believe me, there is nothing wrong, 7~eally. I shall thank you always.”
Before I had an opportunity to reply she had slipped away in the crowd. To say I [168]
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was amazed were to put it mildly. I was dumfounded. Two points alone seemed clear in my mind : first, that Fraulein Hart- mann had no idea of spending a half-hour in sewing on a few inches of ruffle ; second, that whatever her motive for remaining away might be, it was “ nothing wrong ” ; her frank, sweet nature utterly forbade such an idea.
Rather troubled, I caught up quickly with the others of the party and entered the box to find Lieutenant Blum and Lieutenant Linder waiting. They looked surprised at seeing me alone, and I hastily explained the situation. Lieutenant Linder then suggest- ed that we three take a stroll about the hall, and we started off, I talking very rapidly, in the hope of turning their attention from the Fraulein’s continued absence. I should not have been a woman had I not myself been a bit curious about her. We made a tour of the room and at length came to the head of a flight of stairs. I declared that I was dying of curiosity to discover what lay at the foot, so we descended and found our- [169]
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selves in the very midst of a forest. On every side extended paths lined with trees whose branches met above in arches. At the end of one of the paths we saw a log hut. Above, through interlaced branches, shone a silver moon. I could not help ex- claiming at the beauty of the illusion.
There were countless little arbors and retreats where couples were sitting out dances. We had just started to turn down the path to the right, when I caught sight of a rose-colored dress in one of these arbors. A step farther and I saw that the girl lean- ing against the bench was Fraulein Hart- mann. Her head was thrown back in a characteristic attitude and her lips were parted, as though eagerly listening to the words of her companion. He — for of course it was a man — was a broad- shouldered fellow, with a smooth face and a sword-cut on his forehead. Bending for- ward, he looked up intently into the face of the girl, talking very earnestly, very rapidly, as if pleading a case under pressure of time.
Quick as a flash I wheeled about and
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faced the others, for the path was only broad enough for us to proceed in single file. I declared this walk stupid ; the hut was the only thing really worth seeing ; where- upon my bodyguard, although laughing at the capriciousness of my sex, obediently followed. How long I lingered about that wretched hut 1 can’t say. At last, when every pretext was gone, I made my way back again upstairs. What a sigh of re- lief I gave when we reached the box, for there sat Fraulein Hartmann, smiling in her sweet, plaintive fashion, and talking to her aunt and Herr Doktor with the utmost self- possession. A moment later we had whirled away among the dancers, and I did not have an opportunity to exchange a word with her alone.
At twelve o’clock the orchestra stopped playing for an hour and supper was served. Half of the people had been eating and drinking the entire evening, for tables had been spread in the boxes from the opening of the ball. This did not, however, seem to make any difference in the keenness of their [171]
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appetites now. We had a very jolly time in our box, for beside the pensionnaires were several Americans. Among them were Mr. and Mrs. Albert Sterner. You are doubt- less familiar with the delightful work of Mr. Sterner. He has won considerable reputa- tion, especially for his illustrations. Both he and his wife added much merriment to the party, for they are very entertaining. The ball began again at one, but no one thought of going home till four o’clock. We left Lieutenant Linder still dancing.
“ This lasts till five,” he explained, as he took us to our carriage. “ I shall get a cup of coffee at the restaurant, change to my uniform, and be ready for Dienst (service) at six. I really have n’t time to go to bed.”
I captured two very pretty souvenirs of the occasion, one of which you shall have to decorate your den. Every one who went down on the floor wore a favor made of blue ribbon, fastened with a gold head of Folly. Lieutenant Linder and Herr Martens both presented me with theirs, and in spite of acquiring a habit for greediness, I smilingly [ 172]
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accepted both, with a thought for you. They will look extremely well tacked to an American wall.
I did so wish for a word with Friiulein, but she drove home alone with her aunt. As I wrote you, I only see her at table, and so any conversation of a confidential character is out of the question. She is not a girl to practise deception, unless forced by circum- stances, hence I fancy that there is some- thing of a serious nature behind her action. Evidently the handsome young man with the sword-cut is the key to the mystery! Very likely she is in love with him, instead of with that disagreeable Blum. Were she an American girl it would not take her long to throw over the uniform and marry the man she loves ; as it is, with her family and an officer weighing the balance on the opposite side of the scales, I fear the stu- dent’s chances are not the most favorable.
After Supper .
At my last lesson Thuille informed me that he and Tasso were going hunting
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on Saturday. Would I pardon him if he gave me my lesson in his hunting costume ? Accordingly to-day he appeared in a wonderful green shirt striped with white, and open at the neck. His jacket, short trousers and gaiters were of some rough cloth, and the effect was decidedly unprofessional.
The train left directly after the lesson, and Tasso was evidently quite alive to the fact, for instead of sleeping under the desk as he usually does, he roamed about restlessly during the entire hour, and finally became so importunate that his master unceremoni- ously put him out. I had taken in a prac- tice piece scored for wood-wind and horn, including bass clarinet and contra-fagott. The ideas on which I had written the part for bass clarinet were suggested by that bit for the instrument in the third act of 4 4 Siegfried ” where Briinnhilde is wakened by the all-powerful kiss. Unfortunately my result was not what might have been called an unqualified success. In one measure I had put a rest at the second beat, after Lm]
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writing two notes. This immediately at- tracted Thuille’s attention.
“ Why, you ’ve left him hanging in the air ! Poor fellow, he ’s hanging in the air between heaven and earth ! ” he said laughing, but not unkindly. I thought I ought to laugh too, so I joined in, nervously. It is queer how much more humorously these things strike one after a lesson than at the time they actually happen.
“ This is the way he would have to play that,” continued the professor. He puckered up his mouth, held his fingers exactly as the player would, squinted at my score with his head on one side, and blew two notes, “ Poom ! Poom ! ” Then he took the imaginary instrument suddenly away while his mouth seemed to be forming the same tone. He looked so funny that this time I could not help laughing heartily, and I saw my mistake at once.
Later we came to a horn passage, and in place of the mildly flowing chords in half- notes which I had written he substituted [175]
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eighth-note phrases. “ I thought that would be too fast,” said I, in self-defence.
“ Study modern scores ! ” he exclaimed. “ Study modern horn parts ! But don’t forget the classics either ; and never study Schumann or Brahms for orchestral writing. They were both poor scorers.”
1 sometimes wish he employed similes in his explanations ; they have such a way of sticking in my head and making me remem- ber. I recall now an especially vivid one which Chadwick once made to his orchestral class : “ Here you have your instruments of the orchestra just like so many colors on a palette,” he said. “ You combine different ones just as you mix your colors, to obtain a desired effect. Your task is to make a com- plete, finished picture. Choose your subject and go ahead, but take care to select your materials wisely.”
If you remember, Professor John K. Paine has also a fondness for illustrating his point in this manner, only he chooses litera- ture instead of art as the source from which to draw his comparisons. I can see us now [176]
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sitting side by side in that dingy little room in Vaughan House before the new music room existed, taking notes on his lectures, and can hear him saying, “ Beethoven is the Shakespeare of music.” Do you re- member the day when Miss R brought
her dog into the class, and Professor Paine, after peering at it mildly over his glasses from his seat behind the table, made some witty remark about the increased interest in his lectures which now drew the very beasts to hear him ? And later, how kindly but
firmly he insisted that Miss R leave
her pet at home hereafter, inasmuch as he had already punctuated his paper on Haydn, and he did not consider the assistance of the dog, who broke in every now and then with sharp barks, at all necessary.
As soon as the lesson was over I hurried home, for Miitterchen and I had seats for the Zauberflote that evening. W e had an early supper in our rooms, for the opera began at half-past six. I had not heard a Mozart opera since last September, when the Mozart-cycle was held in the Residenz 12 [ 177 ]
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Theatre. Then I enjoyed Cosi fan tutte , with Fritzi SchefF as Despina. The Residenz Theatre is an ideal place to hear Mozart. It is only large enough to seat eight hun- dred persons, and the orchestra sounds most effective. The Hof Theatre is too large for the production of Mozart’s operas. After one act of the Zauberflote I began to find the orchestra thin and somewhat monoto- nous. When the music is really so beauti- ful, it seems a pity not to give it under the best conditions.
Fraulein Hartmann and her aunt sat just across from us in the balcony. I hoped that we might all walk home together, but when we met at the door afterwards there was Lieutenant Blum, important and self- satisfied, waiting to escort them.
Good night now, my dear.
Fasch ing- Di enstag
{Shrove Tuesday ).
Miinchen gone mad ! Munchen with dignity thrown to the winds and cavorting [178]
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in the dress of a clown ! Miinchen laughing, dancing, fairly shrieking with pure glee ! The misty atmosphere through which one always views the distant majesty of the Maximileum as one looks down Maximilian- strasse is curiously filled with a new sort of snowflake, a tiny, square atom which may be red or green or the most vivid of yellows. The sidewalks are packed with a half-crazed throng, some in vari-colored costumes, others in street dress, but all pelting one another with confetti, while the street itself is crowded with slow-moving lines of carriages whose occupants join no less wildly in the fun. And all this because it is the last day of the carnival.
My first glimpse of the frolic to come was afforded me on Saturday. I was deep in the midst of a canonic imitation when there came a knock on the door and in burst Karl, radiant, his cheeks aglow with ex- citement. He was dressed in a wonderful costume, which consisted of a loose white shirt with black silk pompons down the front, white trousers, a gigantic white
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ruff about the neck and a high pointed hat.
“ Bin ich niclit nett , gnadiges Fraulein ? ” (Am I not fine ?) he cried, kissing my hand with mock deference and prancing about the study. “ Just wait till you see me to- morrow ! Then I am to have a grand mustache and all kinds of red and green designs painted on my cheeks ! ”
He grinned with delight at the thought of these cannibalistic decorations, which, however, struck me as more appropriate for a circus than a Sunday promenade.
To-day Mutter chen , the Baroness, Herr Martens, and I took a carriage before the house at two o’clock. One’s first carnival is not a thing to be taken calmly and I was all excitement, staring to right and left, and craning my neck in my endeavor not to miss anything. On every corner we passed stood old women and men with little push- carts full of bright-colored bags of confetti or baskets of Luft-ScJdangen (long paper streamers done up in small rolls, to be thrown through the air like those we have [180]
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at the Harvard Class Day exercises around the statue). For ten pfennigs (two and one-half cents) one could obtain a generous supply, and following the Baroness’ sugges- tion, we stocked the carriage well.
We found the streets already so crowded that we were forced to proceed very slowly towards Max-Joseph-Platz. Just as we reached the post-office a horn blew sharply, policemen hurriedly pushed back the crowd, and the First and Second Cavalry regiment officers came galloping by us and on down the street between the two long lines of carriages. Their appearance was most gro- tesque. Dressed as clowns, in suits of black or white, their painted faces made them all look alike. With snapping whips they urged on their horses at full speed. The excited animals seemed to enjoy the fun as much as their riders, and shook their gayly ribboned manes proudly.
Hardly had we started again, for our car- riage had come to a halt to let them pass, when I heard a familiar voice cry, “ Hola ! ” and as I turned to see who was shouting, a [181]
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handful of confetti was thrown straight in my face. For a moment I was angry, for the sensation of eyes and mouth suddenly full of paper is not conducive to amiability. Then, realizing the absurdity of losing my temper at such a time, 1 dived my hand into a bag to retaliate on my antagonist. Before I could discover him another shot landed in the back of my neck and over my hat a Luft-Sehlcuige came floating.
“ Caught you that time, gncidiges Fi'tiu- lein ,” said a voice, and I met the laughing glance of Karl, who jumped on the step of our carriage and rode along with us. His white costume was sadly soiled, but he had fulfilled all his promises as to the horrible wonder of a painted mustache and streaked cheeks. A North American Indian could not have improved on him.
“ I Ye ridden up and down five times al- ready,’' he said, as he jumped off* to pay a similar visit to some friends just across.
“ There s Lou and the girls,” I cried, catching sight of a carriage in the opposite line coming up the street as we went down.
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Having learned my lesson I was not slow to put it in practice, for standing up in the carriage 1 pelted them mercilessly, Herr Martens supplying me with a fresh bag every time I needed one, and the Baroness joining enthusiastically in the attack.
It was not a one-sided battle, for the girls were quick to return our shots, and the aim of the little Italian count who was with them was excellent. You should have seen our carriage when they were finally out of range. The floor, up to our shoe-tops, was filled with confetti ; our jackets were cov- ered with it, and from the shoulders of the driver, from our hats, from the sides of the carriage hung countless brilliant streamers.
At the big statue we turned and came back. When we finally succeeded in reach- ing the post-office we found a most excit- ing thing taking place. A company of clowns on horseback, whom we recognized as the cavalry officers who had earlier passed us, were forming in line at the farther end of the Platz. Suddenly they set off with brisk canter, swung around the statue of [183]
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Max Joseph, and dashed at full speed up the high flight of stairs leading to the opera house ! They came back rushing down the driveway. The horses were almost beside themselves with excitement, for their officers leaning far forward, brandished their whips, dug in their spurs, and urged on the beasts by frantic shouts and exclamations, while the crowd of onlookers cheered wildly. It was a thrilling sight, and I watched them breathlessly. I could not help feeling that at any moment one of these half-crazed creatures, now flecked with foam, might lose his balance and fall backwards down the steps crushing his rider beneath, and so I gave a relieved sigh as I saw the men at last dismount, give their quivering steeds to an orderly, and adjourn to the cafe opposite. Just then the Baron and Herr Doktor, who were walking, came up to our carriage.
“ We ’ll take you into the cafe for a mo- ment,” said the Baron. “ It is apt to grow rather rough there later, but you must get a glimpse of another side of the carnival.” xlccordingly, well barricaded by the gentle- [184]
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men, we quietly entered the cafe and took the only vacant table which stood in a retired corner. Here again the officers had undisputed possession of the place. They were laughing, dancing and singing in a bois- terous though not at all in an offensive fashion. Meanwhile an orchestra in the centre of the room played some lively music.
44 Your selection pleaseth me but poorly,” declaimed a tall fellow with a blue ruff about his neck, as he tapped on the shoulder of the director. “Why not soothe our ears with a ditty akin to this ? ” whistling one of the popular student airs. He seized the baton and mounted the platform, rapping sharply on the rack. The players, entering into the spirit of the thing, followed him perfectly. This was not so simple a matter as it sounds, for he conducted with a ridicu- lous exaggeration of all the mannerism, ges- tures and poses of Weingartner. It was very cleverly done and set every one into roars of laughter, especially when the fellow insisted on a pianissimo passage. Then he would tilt back his head, wave his left hand [185]
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with that curious droop of the finger-tips so characteristic of the great conductor, and nonchalantly beat time with his stick at an angle directed towards heaven.
No sooner had he finished and returned with low bows of mock modesty to his place, than an officer in the corner jumped on top of a table and, stein in hand, began singing. The crowd, who had gathered around him, joined in the refrain, clinking their mugs together, for of course every one was drinking beer — fa va sans dire . If an officer chanced to be without any, he made his way to a table where some onlookers were sitting, and with a courteous “ beg pardon,” and a grace- ful raising of the pointed cap, helped him- self to the largest stein from under the very nose of its owner, and walked serenely off. No one seemed to mind this, the original possessor of the beer least of all, for he laughed heartily, and ordered the waiter to bring him a fresh supply. The established rule of the carnival is to take everything in the greatest good humor and let the spirit of fun prevail.
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“ To your very good health ! May you live long, be prosperous, and see many carni- vals ! ” said another fellow as he helped him- self to a stranger’s wine and raised the glass to his lips.
“That’s Count von E ,” said the
Baroness in a whisper, as he set down the glass, bowing gravely. “ I should know his peculiar walk anywhere.”
“It was certainly most interesting,” said I, as after watching the frolic for half an hour we walked out into Perusia-strasse.
“ You don’t have anything half as jolly in America, do you ? ” said Herr Martens, with a tone of superiority in his voice. Whenever any one addresses me with that inflection my spread-eagleism is aroused. I immediately began to dilate on America and the American. This time I chose as my theme “ Fourth of July,” which of all our celebrations seemed nearest akin to this, and my glowing description of the manifold features of Independence Day caused the carnival to seem like a children’s festival.
Did I write you that the Americans in the [187]
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pension opposite were to give a St. Valen- tine’s party ? Owing to illness it was post- poned to the evening of Fasching Dienstag. Accordingly we finished our day by a dance and general frolic with the girls, which was one of the j oiliest things I have been to this year. This letter is so full of frivolity that to tell you of my doings in a musical way seems most incongruous, so T will save all such items for my next.
As ever, dear Cecy,
M.
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March 3 , 10.30 P. M.
/HAVE JUST RETURNED from the Moderner Abend at the Kaim Saal, and am so excited that to go calmly to bed and to sleep is an impossi- bility. I don’t know when I have enjoyed anything as much. The concert, as you may have judged by the name, was made up of compositions by living composers. Stavenhagen arranged it and all the num- bers but one were played for the first time. Here is the program :
1. Singspiel Overture .... Edgar Istel. First time !
2. Ein Zweigesprach, Tone-poem. Max Schillings. (For solo violin, solo ’cello, and small orchestra.) [Richard Rettich — Heinrich Warnke.]
First time !
3. Scene and Monologue of Lukas from the Opera Der
Corregidor
[Anton Dressier.]
First time !
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Hugo Wolf.
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4. Klavierkonzert (op. 6) in B flat
minor Felix vom Rath.
[Anna Langenhan-Hirzel.]
5. III. Act of Gugeline .... Ludwig Thuille.
[Gugeline, Agnes Stavenhagen. The Prince, Franz Bergen.]
First time !
The names in brackets are those of the soloists. For some reason or other the or- der was altered. Thuille’s piece and Hugo Wolfs changed places. Edgar Istel, who conducted his own overture, is a tall, broad- shouldered, fine-looking young fellow, and a pupil of Thuille. I am in doubt as to his nationality for he certainly looks too well groomed