her hand. That he was to kiss it she had not the slightest premonition.
In point of fact he didn't, but he tried to, while _Mütterchen_
innocently 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, _Mütterchen_ stammered forth a flood of apologies
in the best German the Berlitz School affords. We were indeed relieved
when he recovered the glasses intact, and a hearty laugh banished our
distress, for the Germans like a joke--provided it is not too subtle--as
well as the rest of us.
Wagner's Ring of the Nibelungen is to be given in two weeks, and we
purchased our seats to-day. I am all enthusiasm to hear it and am
reading the poems. I have a 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 tiresome mustache and a
glance which he imagines is impressive, hopes "_sehr geehrtes Fräulein_
is in good health."
If it weren't for his stunning uniform I don't believe the pretty
Fräulein would look at him twice!
IV
MUNICH, _December 8_.
_Dear Cecilia_:--
The wind is shrieking in great gusts, which begin _piano_, _crescendo_
to _fortissimo_, and then die away in weird, unearthly echoes, while
the rain keeps up a continuous counterpoint to this minor music in
sharp _staccato_ against the window panes. The mist is so thick that the
obelisk at the end of Max-Joseph-strasse looks like a mere shadow. It
is now five o'clock and I have "shut up shop," as it were, to talk with
you, for my lesson for to-morrow, a fugue in C minor, is finished.
It occurred to me, as I was writing it, how curiously a fugue subject
resembles certain clever and unscrupulous people. Both are thoroughly
adaptable, both are capable of saying the direct opposite of what they
have previously boldly stated, both are difficult to deal with and can
only be managed successfully by employing the greatest finesse.
_Tuesday._
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.
"What _are_ you doing?" I said.
"I'm practising," she said, with crushing dignity. Then, throwing me
a supercilious glance, "This is an exercise especially 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.) He had 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 by my 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 three _pensions_ since 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. We all knew, too, that those
thirty marks meant a good deal to Polly.
"Perhaps, after all, it will come out all right," said Louise
consolingly.
"I consider it an absolutely absurd proceeding!" said Edith
emphatically, as she stamped out into the hall.
"You might come down and talk with the Poet's Wife at our _pension_," I
suggested. We always said "the Poet's Wife," since we had long ago given
up her five-syllable name as hopeless. "I'm sure she would be able to
help you."
You see Polly lives alone. We three discussed the matter as we walked
down the Ludwig-strasse, the girls leaving me at the Conservatory, where
I had a piano lesson at five.
And now I must stop, for it is time to dress for the opera. To think of
hearing the "Rheingold" at last!
_Saturday._
I have heard the "Rheingold" and "The Valkyrie," and can hardly wait for
"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 a _Dienstmann_ to get their seats for
them. One finds a _Dienstmann_ at every turning here. They are forlorn,
sad-eyed creatures, in short, frayed jackets and red caps, who linger on
street corners gazing abstractedly into space with their hands in their
pockets. For a small sum they will run from one end of Munich to the
other, or, if need be, will stand in line for tickets from four in the
morning on. Polly has a favorite old _Dienstmann_ called Friedrich.
Accordingly, Friedrich was summoned to the rescue and stood the entire
night with hundreds of others on the chilly stones of Max-Joseph-Platz
in order to get seats. There is a rule that not more than three tickets
can be sold to one of these men. The places in the gallery cost two
marks (fifty cents) and the _Dienstmann_ demands, for standing all
night, generally four marks. It is divided among the trio, so they
get their places for about eighty cents. This price is the exception,
however; ordinarily one pays but thirty-five cents for a seat at this
altitude.
When it comes to sitting in the balcony or orchestra one finds that the
fabulous stories which one hears in America about the cheapness of opera
are grossly 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
sense of 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.
_Monday._
Well, it's all over, that wonderful Ring! "Siegfried" came on Thursday,
and Knote, whom I had previously heard as Tristan, sang the title
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 the _Waldweben_,
singing in the clarinet above the strings, while the horn note,
_pianissimo_, gives that poignant touch of color which only the brain of
a master could conceive.
The dragon, which Herr Martens tells me is generally a small affair, was
horrible and immense enough for any one. I positively trembled when
he poured forth clouds of steam from his gaping jaws, and disclosed a
throat of red fire. The bass tuba makes a grand worm. I never realized
what it was to hear a worm crawl before. But in spite of the wonders
of the work, I wish it were shorter. My head was frightfully tired
endeavoring to follow the countless interwoven themes. But then, this is
my first hearing of it all, and perhaps another time I might change my
opinion.
What a stupendous climax _Gotterdammerung_ is 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 is rather a come-down to discover Professor
B----, whom you saw a moment ago enthralled by the strains of the
_Waldweben_, 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?
_December 15._
Christmas is in the air, and every street-corner has bloomed into a
miniature forest of trees. These are fastened in squares of wood, and
stand up straight and proud. As a rule some strange, bent old
woman presides over them, and out of curiosity to-day I stopped in
Odeons-Platz and inquired the price of a particularly plump little tree.
"One mark fifty" (thirty-seven and a half cents), quavered the dame,
"but they run up as high as fifteen marks."
The poor soul looked so disappointed as I, after thanking her, turned
away, that I simply could not resist going back--least of all at
Christmas time. There was nothing to buy but trees, so I picked out
the plump little one which had first attracted my 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 assurance that 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 interspersed with 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 the _pension_. The clerks in the shops help one out all they can. You
have no idea how courteous they are. Always on entering they say "Good
day" and the proprietor comes up with "How can I serve you, _gnädiges
Fräulein_?" Then they will pull down all the goods in the store, bring
out hidden boxes from under the counters, and even send outside for
something they have not got, remaining perfectly satisfied if you only
purchase something. If you buy nothing, however politely you may regret
that the silk does not match, or the lace bear the required pattern,
they plainly show their displeasure in their faces.
We are always politely escorted to the door by a clerk, who bids us
good by. Often in the smaller stores it is amusing to hear the chorus
of farewells which follow us. Last week Polly and I had coffee at one
of these fascinating _Conditorei_, 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 some _Trinkgeld_ for the
waitress, who had served everything in the daintiest fashion.
"Fifty pfennigs!" said Polly, looking at the coin that I had laid on the
table.
"I felt I ought to give more, but they told me----" I began.
"More!" exclaimed Polly. "I never heard of such a thing! Don't you know
that ten pfennigs (two cents and a half) for each person is considered
quite sufficient?"
Polly has lived here longer than I, and has absorbed the idea that a
pfennig--a fifth of a cent--is a pfennig, and not to be lightly treated.
Accordingly I laid the sum on the table. The waitress swept the money
into the black leather bag which she wore about her waist just as Kathie
does in _Alt-Heidelberg_, and expressed her thanks repeatedly as she
opened the door for us to pass out.
"_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.
_December 18._
To-day came the _Probe_ in 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
much awry, but he stamped about on his bit of platform so ferociously,
shook his baton so threateningly, and shouted his commands in such
sonorous German that I trembled in my American shoes.
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 the _pianissimo_ phrase,
"_selig sind_" (blessed), and the tenors come in yet fainter after them,
and the whole thing dies away as might the distant notes of a celestial
choir, we were gratified to hear him murmur "_Sehr 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 and snares 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.