During one of the pauses I caught sight of a slender, rather

[Transcriber's Note: Underscores are used as delimiter for _italics_]

An

American Girl

in Munich

Impressions of a Music Student

By

Mabel W. Daniels

Boston

Little, Brown, and Company

1905

Copyright, 1905,

BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

All rights reserved

Published March, 1905

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.

_To Mütterchen_

I

MUNICH, _September 15, 1902_.

_Dear Cecilia_:--

Here I am in my Mecca at last after a "calm sea and prosperous 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 to assure you that I am as far from adopting a foreign

point of view in my contemplation of Man and the Universe as when we

used to walk from college down to Harvard 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 standards. I have learned how

unwise a thing it would be for me to say to a German landlady, "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 _Polizei_ on the ground of

insanity. But perhaps, after all, the best way of explaining myself is

to follow the injunction in your letter: "Begin at the beginning and

tell me all about it."

_Mütterchen_ 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 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 sublime

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 familiarly on my

ear. 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 I realized suddenly, with an overwhelming sense of

helplessness, that this strange-sounding 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 unfolding 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 "salon," and pointing out as _pièce de résistance_ a decrepit,

yellow-keyed piano, announced that it was "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

disappeared 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, downcast and disheartened, only to meet practically the same

experience at each _pension_ in turn. If there were already a music

student in possession, that was the signal for me instantly 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, returning from her mornings work at

the Pinakothek, an art student whom I had met on the steamer, and she

told me of a house where she thought there were no _Musikers_ 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 possessors 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 homelike, by placing

a screen to mitigate the depressing 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 _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 boarding-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 attractive spots in the city. As I look down on the waving

tops, 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 forehead, the twittering of birds and the soft plash of the

fountain in my ears, the temptation 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 commonplace.

Really, I didn't introduce that fountain just to create a romantic

description, though it does sound rather like a daily theme. The best

part of it is it's real,--and the loveliest thing in München. 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 subdivided 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 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

aristocracy bursts upon me in my landlord and landlady.

_Mütterchen_ was given the place of honor at the Baron's right. I sat

next. My _vis-à-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, rasping voice, and whose red

cheeks, prominent 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 something 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 English, 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

tumbled over one another. Whenever I heard a totally strange phrase I

soothed my pride by saying, _sotto voce_, to _Mütterchen_, "Again

that demoniacal dialect!" The Baron and 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

opportunity to practise their English!

Between the continual making and consuming of numberless small

sandwiches, which she prepared in a marvellously skilful fashion from

her bread and butter, she conversed in the following manner, never

pausing 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? 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 consists 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 _Zweites

Frühstück_ which I rather imagine I shall omit. At one occurs

_Mittaggessen_, a pompous meal requiring at least an hour. At five every

one has afternoon coffee and a bit of cake. I hear there are any number

of beguiling outdoor cafés 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 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 satisfied, 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 beverage. 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 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

Ainmüllerstrasse, 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 before 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 appointed time, so

I had ample opportunity to regain my composure as I sat in the cosy

reception 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. Perhaps my excitement was increased by the

remembrance of the impression I had made at supper last night, when I

casually mentioned 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 composer. I felt not a little

proud, and somewhat 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.

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-lettered ribbons

which, as they floated flamboyantly 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 inscription. Truly, gratitude must

be the virtue _par excellence_ of Germany!

If I 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 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 bade me be 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 imperial 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 characteristics. I had happened on the _Leitmotif_, as it were,

of Thuille.

"_Ach! dass 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. It is indeed delightful to hear from him again.

And now about yourself. I understand that you want to study composition

with me, Fräulein," 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 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 Fräulein 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 supplemented

my German I might have had in my study a far less acceptable instrument

than the excellent Blüthner which now stands here and for which I pay

the absurdly small sum of ten marks (two dollars and a half) a month.

"By the bye," said I, as we were walking through Theatiner-strasse, "did

I make a great many mistakes in my note to you?"

I meant this to sound naïvely 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.

"Oh, no," she replied, smiling, "you merely asked me to meet you _on

top_ of the Feldernhalle. I was wondering," she added, mischievously,

glancing as we passed at the building's imposing height, "just how I

could get up there."

For several blocks I was silent, meditating on the sad results

of "pride, rank pride and haughtiness of soul," although I fully

appreciated her effort at a joke. Such pleasantries 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 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 subtleties of modern wit, so called.

"This is where I buy my music," said Fräulein L----, stopping before a

small store, "and if it pleases you I will introduce you here."

Accordingly we went in, and after meeting 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 definite length of time. The

arrangement impressed me at once as advantageous, and I inquired as

to the kinds of music the catalogue contained. "Why, songs, operas,

overtures, anything you care for," said the proprietor, in a patronizing

tone.

"Then I can get orchestral scores," I said.

"Orchestral scores?" he cried, starting back as though I had asked him

to pluck the 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 intended it as such. He had

simply not come much in contact with the modern American girl. After

explanation on both sides, I found, however, that it would be better for

me to obtain scores from the Conservatory, 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 trickles

on the sidewalk. This disturbs no one in the least. As we passed the

droschky stand on Max-Joseph-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 followed? 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 Wagner'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 forgotten in the memory of that glorious music. The crowd of

magnificently dressed people promenading between the acts through

restaurant, 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 intensity. Breathless, at the

final fall of the curtain, I hardly realized my physical exhaustion 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 of a slender, rather pale young

man elbowing 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 Wagner!_ 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--I

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 without these walls was the babble of a

foreign language.

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

following 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 rectors 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 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 pardon the unconventionally 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 Freischütz_.

"It's more than a brass band," said I, urging _Mütterchen_ 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 _voilà!_ 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 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 uniforms of the officers who were everywhere, the bright caps of

the students, the gleaming helmets of the officials set off against the

dark background of the Alte Residenz lent an artistic touch to a scene

already brilliant.

"Isn't it splendid?" cried I, excitedly, as we moved along with the

laughing throng. "Just see, _Mütterchen_, 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 Sunday," replied _Mütterchen_,

smiling gently.

I suddenly remembered my Puritan ancestors and felt I ought to shut my

ears to the fascinating lilt of the "Merry Wives of Windsor" overture.

"I don't believe Cotton Mather himself 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 colors 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. Isn'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 Waldfel. 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 certain people accost me this

picture invariably 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 interrogative. "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 ordered

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 _Mütterchen_, "I never can draw her out."

_Mütterchen_ 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 opportunity.

"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 practical 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 pleasant 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 Wiedersehen_, and don't forget I am hungry for news of

everything at home.

II

_October 4._

_Top o' the morning, Cecy dear!_

Such a glorious, _allegro 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 symphony.

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 Conservatory of Munich, to give it its

full title, opened the eighteenth, and promptly at nine o'clock I made

my way thither. What a rambling old building it is, and how replete 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 indefinable 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 America. 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 characteristics of a German, and none

of the unlovely ones. Besides this, he is tall, a rarity in men of his

nation.

"_Eine Amerikanerin!_" he said pleasantly, pushing a chair forward. "I

speak a lee-tle English, but," he went on in German, "perhaps we will

make more progress if I stick to my mother tongue."

"I speak a very little German," said I, smiling, 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 debarred. 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 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 Sekretariat_?" 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.

I felt I ought to be tagged, like those poor creatures in the Zoo,

"Rare. From North America."

"Is the class full, _Herr Sekretariat_?" inquired Stavenhagen.

"About thirty men have registered, _Herr Direktor_," solemnly answered

the secretary.

There was a pause.

"Have you ever played string quarters from score, Fräulein?" 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 Fräulein never has joined the

class is no reason why a Fräulein 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 regarded struck me as

amusing.

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, Fräulein," 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

symphony. I was greatly interested to see Weingartner conduct. He 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 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. Sometimes 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.

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 afternoon, 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 wonderful _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 haven'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 cherubs in twentieth century clothes. In spite of his

infantile expression, however, I hear he has quite a reputation among

men of letters.

A Fräulein Hartmann is expected to-morrow, and that will complete our

household 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 didn'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.

_Wednesday._

This afternoon I had my first lesson with Thuille. I 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 windows I discerned Thuille just

taking a final puff, tossing his cigarette away and coming to meet me

with outstretched hand.

"_Ach! Guten Tag, Fräulein!_" 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 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 orchestration. Doesn't it sound interesting? I hurried home in a

fever of impatience to begin the lesson he has given me for Saturday,

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 pupil of Lescheticsky. 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 Frau 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 undertaker'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 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.

"Isn'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 students.

_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 _Hänsel 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 paid for my seat? Only fifty-five cents--and sat, too, in the

orchestra. At the Conservatory 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 parquet (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 _Vorverkauft_, 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 delightful adventures

of two children. Bosetti, a stout little German in spite of the Italian

ring to her name, played Gretel and Fräulein Tordeck took the part

of Hänsel. Both caught the spirit of the piece and sang and acted

excellently. The music is fascinating in the extreme, and some of

it--the prayer of the two mites in the wood, for example, which brought

the tears to my eyes--very beautiful. There is no interruption. The

music continues even during the pauses between the three so-called

pictures 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 Fräulein 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 profusion 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 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

diplomatic mammas and ambitious daughters, until I should think they

would want to cry "Hold! Enough!" I believe the necessary 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,

however, 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.

Fräulein 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, 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 trombones, 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 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.

III

MUNICH, _November 8_.

Behold me recovering this morning from the effects of my first

participation in German frivolity. 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 fête 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.