delight along the line of _pensionnaires_ each side. The eyes of Herr
Doktor twinkled as he looked across at me. I met his glance with a half
smile. Neither of us meant to be unkind. France and America were merely
united in their appreciation of the humorous. Frau von Waldfel raised
her eyebrows disagreeably, and looked as though about to start a
discussion. To mention food in the presence of that woman is like
brandishing a red flag before a bull. Luckily Herr Doktor saw the signs
of approaching storm, and with his usual diplomacy turned the trend of
conversation, so that an argument was averted for this meal at least.
Is there anything more pitiable than a number of guests, hitherto
unknown to one another, endeavoring to appear at ease as they wait
the summons to dinner? We had thought to avoid this situation by not
appearing till half after seven that evening, the hour set for the
supper party. Imagine, then, our feelings, when fifteen minutes, a
half hour, three quarters dragged by, and no vestige of life from
the dining-room! Everything moves slowly in Germany, and the culinary
department is no exception. The Baroness never seemed so much like a
beneficent angel as when she opened the dining-room door and invited us
to the table. And now a light shone through the clouds, for the stupid
Count with whom I had been struggling to converse was whisked away to
the other end of the table, and Lieutenant Linder, a young man of about
seven and twenty, in the dark blue and scarlet uniform of Bavaria, took
the place on my left.
Oh, these officers! They simply own Munich. When they stride along the
street, the entire sidewalk is their undisputed possession. How
their swords clank, how faultlessly their jackets fit, how their
heavenward-pointing mustaches curl! A few of them are really handsome,
but if not, it doesn't matter in the slightest. The resplendency of
their uniforms would make one forgive almost anything. When I became
accustomed to the atmosphere of conceit in which Lieutenant Linder was
enveloped, I found him distinctly entertaining, and, better yet, he had
a sense of humor. What with his helping me with my German, and my giving
him a lesson in English, we managed to get on famously.
The table was profusely decorated with flowers, and there was a great
deal to eat and more to drink. The idea in cooking seems to be to
produce a color effect. For example, we had as one course well-browned
sausage surrounded by a mass of bright red carrots. Next came the
eternal veal, reposing in a vivid green sea of spinach. Do your æsthetic
sensibilities shrink at these materialistic descriptions? Remember I am
in a materialistic land, amid a materialistic people. Truly the
problem which continually confronts me is: how can a people who seem so
lethargic, and who make no disguise of their love for the product of the
soil and the grape, produce such marvellous, almost superhuman results
in the fields of music and philosophy?
I might have meditated at some length on this question during
the _Namens-Tag_ supper, had not the Lieutenant kept up a rapid
conversation, for we were at the table until half-past eleven. Not that
we were eating all the time, but the waits between the courses were
very long, and in the middle of the dinner we had a pause of twenty
minutes--like an intermission at an assembly--when the Poet, with
marked nervousness, read some original verses "To the Baroness on her
Name-Day." The poor woman was even more embarrassed than he, and so
moved, when at the close we all rose to drink her health, that two large
tears ran down her fat cheeks.
"_Hoch soll sie leben!_" cried Herr Doktor, clinking his glass to mine.
Every one had to touch his glass to every one else's or it was "no
fair," and of course we all walked up to the Baroness and touched hers.
When the coffee had at last been served, we went into the salon carrying
away with us a glass of _Bowle_, or punch, which is much milder than
anything called by that name in America. In came a round little man who
took his place at the piano, and dancing began.
Lieutenant Linder, with an extremely low bow, begged _gnädiges Fräulein_
to give him the honor of the first waltz. _Gnädiges Fräulein_ consented,
and off we started. The floor was excellent,--you know one finds
hardwood floors everywhere here instead of carpets,--but oh, how fast
these Germans dance! The Lieutenant swung me round and round in a small
circle, _prestissimo_, until I begged him to stop, whereupon he looked
very much surprised and asked me if I had heart trouble. I assured him
that such was not the case, but that we were not accustomed in America
to whirl about like tops.
Waltzes and old-fashioned polkas followed in rapid succession. I can't
imagine how _Herr Leutnant_ ever managed to do that one-two-three-hop,
one-two-three-hop, without falling over his sword. At midnight
everybody, including Frau von Waldfel, danced the _Française_, which
is much like our Virginia Reel. You should have seen how the Baron and
Baroness enjoyed it, and how astonishingly light they were on their
feet! They fairly glowed with pleasure, and reminded me of Mr. and Mrs.
Fessiwig at the Christmas party.
I had looked forward to this affair with considerable curiosity, not
only because it was to be my first glimpse of German social life, but
also because the Baroness had invited Lieutenant Blum, the _fiancé_ of
Fräulein Hartmann. I must confess, however, that I was much disappointed
in him. He is short and dark, with a heavy, black mustache which he
constantly caresses with his fat little hands. Although I did not
exchange a word with him the whole evening, except the formalities of an
introduction, I could not shake off the impression that he was of much
coarser fibre than his betrothed. However, he paid her the most devoted
attention the entire evening, and is, apparently, very much in love.
At one o'clock _Mütterchen_ and I exchanged glances. I had a lesson at
the Conservatory the next morning at nine. But at the first hint of our
leaving, the Baroness looked so distressed and surprised that we were
afraid we had been very rude and determined to do the proper thing. The
proper thing in this instance meant staying up to dance till half-past
four in the morning. Oh! how sleepy I was as I crept into bed and
thanked my stars that the _Namens-Tag fête_ was over.
_Evening._
By this time I am beginning to feel quite like a native. My surroundings
no longer seem strange. I am growing accustomed to five meals a day and
the language sounds fairly rational. My work has settled into a regular
routine. The entire mornings are devoted to study. In the afternoons
come lessons. Twice a week I have a private lesson with Thuille. At
the Conservatory I am studying singing with Frau Bianci and piano with
Fräulein Fischer, which makes four lessons more. The piano lessons are
in a class with two other girls, and not as formidable as you might
suppose, for I have explained to Fräulein Fischer that I am only
including piano to keep from forgetting what I already know, and that I
need most of my time on my composition lessons with Thuille. She is very
kind, and every two weeks we are to read duets together. This makes six
lessons a week, and what with the score-reading class and the chorus, I
see a busy winter before me. The singing and piano lessons are given in
a large, imposing room. It contains two grand pianos and is furnished
in red velvet. I could hardly reconcile this with my ideas of a
Conservatory, but Frau Bianci explained that the building was originally
used for something quite different. Just fancy--we address all the
teachers by titles! "Herr Professor" falls now quite trippingly from my
tongue, and even "Frau Professor," but "Fräulein Professor" is a little
too much for me as yet!
I will acknowledge that I felt rather strange at the first meeting of
the score-reading class, when, on entering the room with the score of
Haydn's symphonies under my arm, I encountered the astonished gaze of
thirty pairs of masculine eyes. You could have heard a pin drop, the
place was so still, as I walked by the different groups and took a
seat near the window. Then a low whispering started among the students.
Evidently I had created a sensation. A moment later the big door opened
and Stavenhagen came in. Every one rose, or straightened himself up at
once. With a nod which seemed to include us all, the director took his
seat by the piano and the lesson began. Each one was called on to play
a number of bars written in four different clefs, the old soprano, the
tenor, the alto, and the bass--Stavenhagen selecting a new choral every
time. It was not till near the end of the hour that he called my name.
Just as I took my seat before the keyboard, feeling intensely nervous
and fearing lest my fingers tremble visibly, I heard one of the men
smother a laugh. That settled it! I was bound to do or die, and with
a calmness quite unnatural I played the bars set before me without a
mistake. Nobody laughed when I had finished, and now that the first
shock is over, the students treat me with the utmost courtesy. Indeed,
they seem to have accepted me as inevitable, although occasionally I
catch one of them staring at me with an expression which says as plainly
as words, "What on earth does a woman want of score reading?"
The chorus is well under way. To-day is Thursday, and while you have
been singing with the faithful in the Cecilia Society I, too, have been
at a rehearsal, only we call it a _Probe_ here, and the atmosphere is
somewhat different from that of Pilgrim Hall. The _Oberster Chor_ (which
means the upper chorus) met at five o'clock to-day. The room where
we sit is on the top floor and at the end is an organ. I think the
orchestra class generally practises here. The air is always frightfully
close and hot, for there are about two hundred of us and never a window
open. That is the German idea. What a splendid thing a Fresh Air Fund
would be over here!
The piano against the wall is on a raised platform about which the
chorus forms a half circle. Professor Becht, one of the organ teachers,
presides. Such a time as he does have endeavoring to maintain order! But
the moment we begin to sing--ah! that is a different matter. Each pupil
becomes utterly absorbed in the notes before him, from the first measure
to the last. Each sings as though he loves to sing; yes, better than
that, as though he actually feels what he sings, which is more than can
be said of many vocalists who have won both fame and fortune. There,
you see, is another side of these complex Germans. The love of music is
their birthright, the appreciation of it intuitive.
How I wish you might see some of this queer congregation! The masculine
element ranges from small boys to bearded men. The girls and men are
kept strictly separate, like the sheep and the goats. They enter and
go out by different doors, for the building is divided in two distinct
sections. The sanctity of each section is kept as inviolate as a Shaker
settlement.
The front row of tenors in the chorus amuses me exceedingly. It consists
of boys who wear their hair pompadour and yell outrageously. Did you
ever notice the effect of a boy with pompadour hair opening his mouth
very wide? It is truly startling. The basses form a curious _vis-à-vis_
for these youthful aspirants. Their age is in the neighborhood of
thirty. Obviously to be a bass singer requires both dignity and
experience. Most of them think it also requires a full beard. Several
of the pupils affect the artistic, or are dressed after the old masters,
with long hair, brown corduroy velvet jackets, and flowing neckties.
There is one I have named Rubenstein, he looks so much like the
pictures of the great pianist. And the most interesting tenor-boy I call
Beethoven. He wears a big white collar into which he sinks his chin, and
with deep, earnest eyes under closely knit brows gazes gravely out on a
frivolous world.
I felt very much like the proverbial stray cat as I entered the room at
the first rehearsal, alone and silent in all that crowd of chattering
German girls. Not knowing where to sit, I cast an anxious look around
and caught the friendly glance of a girl in the second row. She beckoned
to me somewhat shyly.
"There is a place here, if you care for it," she said.
Overjoyed to hear my mother tongue, I gladly took the seat beside her,
and we were soon chatting in the unconventional way known to strangers
who meet on strange soil. I could not but notice with what a high-bred
manner my new friend carried her head. Her hair, black and curling, is
coiled in a low knot at the back of the whitest of necks, for she wears
her blouses cut out a little without a collar, as is the strange and
rather chilling fashion here. I was struck, too, by her jacket of black
velvet, an odd school dress, but one which seems to suit her perfectly.
"You are English, are you not?" I questioned.
"Not at all," said she, her blue eyes snapping as much as blue eyes ever
can snap. "I'm Irish. I come from County Cork."
"Oh!" I said, drawing a long breath, as visions of the representatives
County Cork generally sends to America flashed through my mind.
"I'm taking piano as my _Hauptsache_ with Krause," she went on. "You
know Stavenhagen and Krause have a great many foreign pupils. By the
bye," she continued, "I have a friend myself in the United States. I
wonder if you know her--a Miss Curtis."
"Couldn't you tell me what city she lives in?" I suggested. "I know
several people of that name."
"Then I'm sure you know her. How delightful!" she replied, radiant. (I
made a mental note of the fact that jumping at conclusions is a trait
not confined exclusively to American women.) "She comes from Los
Angeles."
For the twentieth time since my arrival in Munich I explained the
relative situation of Boston and San Francisco, and politely regretted
that I could not know all the music students as far as the Pacific
coast.
I was surprised at first to see how much deference is paid the
professors here. Whenever one enters the room we all immediately rise
and do not sit until he either goes out or, by a gracious wave of
the hand, accords us permission to resume our places. In spite of my
democratic birth, these marks of respect impressed me as extremely
fitting. About every two weeks comes a "_Vortragsabend_," an evening
devoted to a concert by the pupils. Stavenhagen has a large orchestra
composed of the students, which he conducts himself. We are marked,
too, by some occult system whereby our standing is never known unless we
"flunk."
Last week I had a very pleasant chat with Professor Gluth. He is a
well-known composer here, has written several operas, and teaches at the
school. Margaret Ruthven Lang had been kind enough to give me a letter
of introduction to him. He was her teacher when she was in Munich. I
have been trying to see him for some time, but have always missed him.
He is a splendid-looking man, very large, with white hair, and his
manner is most cordial. He was delighted to hear of Miss Lang, and I was
proud to tell him of her success in the musical world.
We have been to the opera twice since I wrote, once to hear _Die Weisse
Dame_ and the second to hear "Fidelio." I am afraid the report that the
Prince Regent was to be there had more to do with our going than the
desire to hear _Die Weisse Dame_ itself, although it is a pretty opera
in its way. The audience was very splendid and the royal box brilliantly
lighted. The most expensive places are in the first balcony, and here we
saw very fine costumes and jewels. At ten minutes past seven--the opera
as a rule begins at seven--the orchestra struck up "God save the King,"
and the people rose _en masse_ as the Prince, accompanied by the Crown
Princess and several members of the royal family, entered the box. The
Regent at once came to the front, and with one hand resting on the red
velvet railing, bowed repeatedly to right and left. He is of medium
height, with white hair and flowing white beard. His eyes are bright
and kindly, and his bearing, while most dignified, is utterly without
ostentation. It was an inspiring sight,--the five balconies, the floor,
and the boxes all alive with a crowd of enthusiastic people, who,
standing, faced this man who served them as king, and applauded till the
house echoed with their cries of "_Hoch! Hoch!_"
Although "Fidelio," which we heard on Wednesday, presented no such
gorgeous spectacle, how much more we enjoyed that evening! Morena sang
the title rôle, and I feel as though I never want to see any one else
in the part. She is a tall, commanding woman of great beauty, and
the masculine dress of Leonora suits her marvellously. Her voice is
exquisite, fresh, and true, and her acting shows great intensity of
power and feeling. Bosetti, who, you remember, sang so delightfully in
_Hänsel und Gretel_ made a charming Marzelline. When the opera was over
_Mütterchen_ and I rose to go, but to our surprise saw that the audience
remained seated. As we took our places again, Zumpe raised his baton
and the first measures of that divine Leonore overture number three rang
out. I have never heard anything more impressive, coming as it did to
form a finale to the opera itself. It seemed as though the people
held their breath during the performance; not a rustle, not a movement
distracted one from the glorious music of the orchestra. At the close
the whole house broke into wild applause and cries for "Zumpe! Zumpe!"
I do think this German enthusiasm splendid. We talk about the stolidity
of the Teutonic race, but I have never yet seen here an unresponsive
audience. If they do not like a thing they remain silent. It is the
exception to hear any hissing, although it now and then occurs. If they
do like a thing they applaud, and applaud lustily. They resemble
big, impulsive children, and the man who said "There is nothing for
preserving the body like having no heart" would find no place among
them. That cherished enormity known as Modern Indifference, by so many
of us regarded as the outward sign of culture, is, in Germany, thank
Heaven, conspicuous by its absence.
_November 28._
Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. I could hardly realize that you were
feasting at home on turkey and cranberry sauce amid all the festivities
of the season. The day here passed as usual with my morning of study and
a lesson with Thuille in the afternoon. In the evening, that we might
not forget what day it was, the American colony had a dinner and dance
at one of the large hotels. I had no idea before that there were so many
Americans in Munich. Colonel W---- said there must be about four hundred
in all, and fully two hundred and fifty came to the dinner. The rooms
were lavishly decorated with American flags and flowers, as were also
the tables. And oh! how pleasant was the sound of English on every side.
The consul's wife and the 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 that these were American
turkeys especially imported for the occasion. The cranberry sauce, too,
would, I believe, have been passed by unrecognized on the other side,
but 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 morning _Mütterchen_ presented me with some
lovely gifts tied with a red, white, and blue ribbon. To our surprise,
about ten o'clock came a knock on my door, and in walked Karl bearing
a huge cake on a tray, the Baron and Baroness following. They were all
three beaming with delight, and each shook my hand a dozen times in
their cordial way, wishing me all sorts of good things. The cake had
been ordered and made at the pastry cook's especially for me. It was
round and bore across the top, in letters of marvellous white frosting
script, "_Herzlichen Gruss_" (Hearty Greeting).
"That must have the place of honor," I cried, much moved by their
friendliness, as I swept the books off the table. "It is truly a
wonderful cake."
Hardly had they gone when a second knock sounded, and in response to my
"_Herein!_" in came the servants in a row, headed by Georg, the butler.
Twisting the buttons of his livery, he made a little speech very fast,
all of which I could not understand, but the burden of it was a wish
that the _lieber Gott_ would keep _gnädiges Fräulein_ in health and
happiness all her days. Then he shook me warmly by the hand. The maids
followed, each wishing me good fortune in some pretty couplet, and with
a quaint little courtesy also shaking my hand. It was all done with such
delightful simplicity that I can never forget it.
But this was not all the kindness I received, for when we went out to
dinner, there on my plate was a beautiful basket of white roses from my
"friends in the _pension_." I did not know what to say in my surprise,
so I only exclaimed _Danke 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 some
_Lebkuchen_ in 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 the _Lebkuchen_ they sell
here are as good as the genuine article, but I know better, and these
are the real Nuremberg ones, famous the world over."
I thanked her heartily for her 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 the _Populäres 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.
_Mütterchen_ and I took places at one in the rear, and I noticed after
we had been seated a few moments the disagreeable expression on the
faces of the strangers at the table. In fact, two of them looked
seriously offended and made some remark to each other, _sotto voce_,
with a glance towards us. In bewilderment I wondered what could have
destroyed their equanimity, for they seemed placid enough when we first
came in. Suddenly it flashed across me.
"Don't you remember," I whispered to _Mütterchen_, "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."
_Mütterchen_ looked alarmed, but just then the lieutenant came up to
take us to a table large enough for our whole party, and we soothed the
wounded feelings of those we had so unconsciously offended by bestowing
the most cordial of bows as we went away.
This was not, however, our only unhappy experience, born of ignorance
and American training, on that evening. It chanced, when we reached home
after the concert, that the lieutenant turned to _Mütterchen_ first to
say good night.