Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. I could hardly realize that you were feastingat 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 rector's 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 thatthese 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 anything 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 morningMütterchenpresented 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 hadbeen 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 thelieber Gottwould keepgnädiges Fräuleinin 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 received,for when we went out to dinner, there on my plate was a beautiful basket of white roses from my "friends in thepension." I did not know what to say in my surprise, so I only exclaimedDanke Tausendmal(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.
"I want to tell you, my dear, that I sent to Nuremberg for someLebkuchenin honor of your birthday," she said. "You will find the package in your room. They tried to persuade me in the shops," she added, lowering her voice to a whisper, "that theLebkuchenthey 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 thoughtfulness, assuring her that I had often read of them in my fairy-tale books. Then they both shook hands and Fräulein Hartmann,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 thePopuläres Konzert—the Baron and Baroness, Herr Doktor, Lieutenant Linder,Mütterchen, 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 "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.Mütterchenand 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 Iwondered 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 toMütterchen, "Edith 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."
Mütterchenlooked 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 toMütterchenfirst to say good night.
"A most enjoyable evening,gnädige Frau," he said, bending low over her hand. That he was to kiss it she had not the slightestpremonition. In point of fact he didn't, but he tried to, whileMüttercheninnocently 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,Mütterchenstammered 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 splendid 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,—doesn't it?—but is most interesting.Wish me joy, and in the meantime believe me, as always,
M.
P. S. Fräulein 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 unbearable 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 tiresomemustache and a glance which he imagines is impressive, hopes "sehr geehrtes Fräuleinis in good health."
If it weren't for his stunning uniform I don't believe the pretty Fräulein would look at him twice!
Dear Cecilia:—
The wind is shrieking in great gusts, which beginpiano,crescendotofortissimo, and then die away in weird, unearthly echoes, while the rain keeps up a continuous counterpoint to this minor music in sharpstaccatoagainst 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.
I was interrupted in my letter of yesterday by Frau von Waldfel 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 Fräulein Hartmann, for ever since that day I wrote you, when I met her crying in the hall, she has appeared most cheerful. 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 impression 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 acquainted, 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.
"Whatareyou doing?" I said.
"I'm practising," she said, with crushing dignity. Then, throwing me a supercilious glance, "This is an exercise especially recommended by Lescheticsky."
"Oh!" said I meekly, inwardly wondering if there are any more sensitive creatures on earth than we music students. How enthusiastically 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 oh! 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 Weingartner concert, and more especially Alexander Petschnikof. (I can never pronounce his name without wanting to sneeze.) Hehad played the Mozart Concerto and Bach's Chiaconna most acceptably, to judge from his reception. Since none of us were violinists we felt free to discuss his style and phrasing 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 bymy barbaric pounding. Fancy that reaching Lescheticsky's ears! He says I'm 'at it' all day!"
"Outrageous!" cried Louise.
"Preposterous!" avowed Edith.
They were both following the laws of Lescheticsky.
"I'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-destroying sound of a Czerny exercise repeated over and over.
"It's not the moving I mind," continued Polly, "I'm quite an adept at that, having lived in threepensionssince my arrival last August." Here she smiled bitterly. "But at one thing I do rebel, and that is at having to pay thirty marks for a damper for my piano, which I ordered from Berlin in the hope of appeasing him when he complained a week ago!"
It was, indeed, an unhappy situation. Weall 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 proceeding!" said Edith emphatically, as she stamped out into the hall.
"You might come down and talk with the Poet's Wife at ourpension," 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!
I have heard the "Rheingold" and "The Valkyrie," and can hardly wait for "Siegfried"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 aDienstmannto get their seats for them. One finds aDienstmannat 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 oldDienstmanncalled 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(fifty cents) and theDienstmanndemands, 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 exaggerated.
"Why, opera costs nothing over there!" you hear. "One can go for a song!"
As a matter of fact, the seats in the first balcony generally cost two dollars, an orchestra 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 "Rheingold," more bewitching 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 senseof humor rose to the surface. You have heard that old adage, haven't you, "Laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone"? I have proven satisfactorily 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 "Augh!" 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 demeanor 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 "to thine own self be true," Cecilia, and so I make no defence. What need when I am writing to one who Understands?
The spring motif of "The Valkyrie" is the incarnation of tenderness and eternal freshness, and the climax of the whole opera seems to me simply colossal. Brünnhilde, sung by Senger-Bettaque, was convincing and forceful. Her supposedly fiery steed, a raw-boned black creature who looked sufficiently mild for children to drive, was reluctantly dragged in, licking sugar in a most obvious fashion from the corners of his mouth. Even a sturdy and belligerent Brünnhilde, 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 Fräulein 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 growling themes for 'cello and double basses.
Well, it's all over, that wonderful Ring! "Siegfried" came on Thursday, and Knote, whom I had previously heard as Tristan, sang the title rôle. At the end of the first act the audience fairly went wild with enthusiasm. Oh, that wonderful bit of orchestration where Mimi speaks of fear! And that perfect effect of the bird-voice in theWaldweben, 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 endeavoring to follow the countless interwoventhemes. But then, this is my first hearing of it all, and perhaps another time I might change my opinion.
What a stupendous climaxGotterdammerungis to the whole Ring! The prelude is perfect, and I can imagine no more dramatic moment than that when Siegfried drinks to Brünnhilde in the fatal draught. Never shall I forget the grandeur of the music at the breaking of day, before the entrance 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 intermissions. 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 isn't a theatre or opera house in all Germany which does not contain a restaurant. To be sure, it israther a come-down to discover Professor B——, whom you saw a moment ago enthralled by the strains of theWaldweben, now prosaically munching a ham-sandwich and drinking beer in a corner of the café, as though his soul had never been stirred beyond 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?
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 presidesover 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 attention. She was 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 Hausmeister'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 assurancethat it was for him, and left him, wholly bewildered, 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 expression 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 decoration 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 interspersedwith the larger ones so as to produce the most surprising effects! Who ever associated 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 marvellous tower out of sausages laid crisscross, with openings for little windows, with a turret on the very top, with a flag waving 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 racking our brains to think of things appropriate for those at thepension. The clerks in the shops help one out all they can. You have no idea how courteous they are. Always on entering they say "Good day" and the proprietor comes up with "How can I serve you,gnädiges Fräulein?" Then they willpull 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 follow us. Last week Polly and I had coffee at one of these fascinatingConditorei, or little bake-shops which one finds here everywhere. 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 someTrinkgeldfor 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.
"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 inAlt-Heidelberg, and expressed her thanks repeatedly as she opened the door for us to pass out.
"Bitte, verehren uns wieder!" (Please honor us again) said the proprietor from her desk.
"Adieu, meine Damen," 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.
Polly and I looked at each other and laughed.
"Don't fancy it was the effect of the tip," said she. "They go through the same program 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 overcome with joy that he withdrew his complaint and told Polly she might "bang away" till he returned.
"And now come down to the Schlüssel 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."
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.
To-day came theProbein the big hall for the concert next week. The regular Conservatory 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 Stavenhagen; 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 muchawry, 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.
We 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 kettledrums, 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, I suppose, as applicable here as elsewhere. An unusually meek man was to manage the bells which play such an important part in this work, and he continually 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 auspiciously, and as the beautiful first movement,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 thepianissimophrase, "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 schön!" He praised us, too, for the second movement. Isn't it magnificent when the whole chorus sing in unison that grand, broad theme, "Denn 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 andsnares of that most difficult of fugues, "Der Gerechten Seelen" (The righteous souls). There is a bit of it where the tempo is amazingly tricky, and I 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 "Ach, 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 reproachfully. We 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,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 thepension. The family were at supper and the anxious face ofMütterchenlooked relieved as I opened the door.
"We thought you were lost, isn't it?" said the Herr Doktor, in what he considered unimpeachable English.
Fräulein 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 ofgnädiges Fräulein," said Lieutenant 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,HerrLeutnant," I replied as sweetly as possible. "You really didn't think me lost, or kidnapped, or perchance murdered in cold blood, did you?" I added toMütterchen, 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 umbrella till it rained,'" she answered.
I looked gratefully across the table at the Poet's Wife, who smiled understandingly 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 temperament! I can hardly imagine a placid Tschaikowsky or an unruffled Dvorák, can you?
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!Alles schläft, einsamwacht,Nur das traute hochheilige Paar,Holder Knabe im lockigen HaarSchlafe in himmlischer Ruh'.
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!Alles schläft, einsamwacht,Nur das traute hochheilige Paar,Holder Knabe im lockigen HaarSchlafe in himmlischer Ruh'.
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!Alles schläft, einsamwacht,Nur das traute hochheilige Paar,Holder Knabe im lockigen HaarSchlafe in himmlischer Ruh'.
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft, 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 together the old carol which has rung throughout Germany on this night for centuries gone by? We formed a strange congregation—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 softened as, under the spell of the song, his thoughts turn to his Paris hearthstone; Frau von Waldfel, forgetting, in the meaning of the hour, to wonder what sort ofgoodies we were to have for dinner; Fräulein 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, abandoning his student airs to add a tenor, and last—but best of all—Mütterchen. 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 together 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 secondverse. Then I 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 Bavarian Highlands, hid her face on Therese's shoulder. I looked atMütterchenbravely 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 vanished, 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 varicolored balls, in hanging the tinsel favors, in arranging the silver shower had not been invain. It was indeed a marvellous shower, delicate, fairy-like, falling from the very topmost 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 particular group, and over it hung a bough of green and a basket of cakes and candy. In one corner was a large table for the servants.Mütterchenand 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 delight. There are thousands of them, ranging from the sonorousgrossartig, with the prolonged rolling of thers, to that overwhelmingone which has such a wealth of emphasis on the last syllable,kol-os-sál! When they are all, as it were, turned on together, the effect is torrential!
After we had looked at our gifts and admired those of every one else, and the servants, beaming with happiness, had shaken hands and expressed their thanks, we went into the dining-room. Of course there was aBowleand 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 pillars dimly discerned the vast crowd kneelingin the pews, blocking the aisles, and occupying every portion of available space. Beyond 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 followed 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 thousandsof 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 suddenly damp and chill, and shivering, I pulled my cloak around me.
"I didn'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.
But the Poet's Wife said nothing. She only looked at me with her deep, unfathomable 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.
The 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 forgotten that such things as canons or double counterpoint exist? If not, Cecymia, 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,when all the white is changed to rose—it beggars description.
We left München on Christmas Day—just after my writing you. All thepensionnairesand 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 marvellous 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 feature 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 inplace 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 Conservatory. 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, apparently listening; then suddenly darts out of the room and does not return for twenty minutes.
"When he teaches Beethoven it is a different story," she went on. "He likes to do that better than anything. He drawsup 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 "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. Turning 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 representing 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 delightfully American in its furnishings and arrangement! The only discord in the harmony are the German porcelain stoves,but one can't have everything and live in the heart of the Austrian Tyrol too.
We breakfast in the loveliest room upstairs. 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 together; 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 distance, so far that the blue of the sky becomes 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 objective 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. ThePromenade lies across the river, for an impetuous 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 excellentCapelle, 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 Curhaus 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 andmusician 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 theCapelle, who all knew him, watched us curiously. When we were within a few feet of him, we introduced ourselves as old friends whom he had, perhaps, by this time forgotten. It was charming to see his frank delight in meeting us again and in learning news of Boston, which he loves very dearly.
"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 pertaining to his art that I could not but think of Victor Hugo's lines, "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 "Küss' 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 evenhere in this cool sequestered vale of the Adige people do not say what they mean. It seems the proper thing to murmur "Küss' die Hand," but no one but a servant would ever think of actually doing it. It is a sort of "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, excited voice she recited a little poem about the New Year. Her sister, no less thrilled by the occasion, recited very rapidly two more verses aboutFreude(joy) andGlück(happiness).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 weekwithbeer?[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 Mr. S—— assures me that it has quite the contrary effect, and the more beer she drinks the better she cooks.
This afternoon we took a long drive, returning through the town, so I had a fine chance to see the peasants in gala array. Near a wayside shrine (one finds them everywhere 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. "Isn'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 marriedmen, 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 Germanpensiondiet. 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 severalshowily 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 thepensionaccepting a cup of tea from Fräulein Hartmann's slender hands, while Frau von Waldfel from behind the urn regards him with admiring glances, for of course the Fräulein is not allowed to see him alone. That would be a frightful breach of etiquette. Well, I will let you know when I return. For her sake, I rather hope I was mistaken.
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 paradise. We reached Innsbruck at threeo'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 fidecastle, 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 mediævalism, 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 apensionI 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 crowningfeature beneath this most enchanting of roof-trees. LeavingMütterchento 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 sunlight sifting in through the high window at the farther end of the room sent ashattered 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 fête 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 fascinating than living in a house where every nookand 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.
Here we are again in old München! Every one in thepensionexpressed 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 followed. As at his "Herein!" I entered the smoke-wreathed studio, he tossed his cigarette into the waste-basket, jumped up from his desk, and with both hands extended came to meet me.
"Ach! gnädiges Fräulein!" he exclaimed, "you were so kind to remember me in that charming way." Then what do you thinkhe did? He bent over my hand in the most dignified way and kissed it. I 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 cigarettes which always lie carelessly strewn about. Then I placed my fugue on the music rack. Whatever I bring, be it sonatina, invention, or merely a counterpoint exercise, Thuille daringly plays it outforte. 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 pronouncedrecht 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 yourwhile to study," he said. It was Mozart's Serenade in B flat major for wind instruments, including thecorno di basettoand thecontrafagotto. 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.
"Ach Gott, my child!" he exclaimed, smiling at my hopeless expression; "I 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 instruments and that they together produce an harmonic whole? There is as much individuality in the writing of these dots as inhandwriting. Thuille'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 impressed 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 himself 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.
We are both much struck with the change in Fräulein Hartmann. She is much paler than she was before we went to Meran, and flushes nervously at the least excitement.Mütterchen, who has the misfortune to benext 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 Fräulein Hartmann 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 Waldfel to give her views on the new cooking-school, while Fräulein 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.
"I want ter know where those pictures of Reuben are. Baedeker stars 'em three times," said the stout traveller, turning to me.
I was longing to ask "Reuben who"? butMütterchen, evidently sensing my temptation, 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 absence to make Fräulein 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,—Ienjoy the lessons immensely. When we read at sight I find them especially interesting. We have been playing some splendid things for two pianos, among them those lovely Schumann variations in D major. If you don't know them get them by all means. Yesterday we finished Brahms' symphony in E minor, with its vigorousallegro 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 wasallowed 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 "Marguerite 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,