minute, Stavenhagen picked up his baton and said calmly, sternly, his
voice cutting the stillness, "We will go on."
Well, we got through somehow, but it was after eight o'clock when I ran
down the snowy street back to the _pension_. The family were at supper
and the anxious face of _Mütterchen_ looked relieved as I opened the
door.
"We thought you were lost, isn't it?" said the Herr Doktor, in what he
considered unimpeachable English.
Fräulein Hartmann, looking charming in a light-blue gown which she
had donned in honor of Lieutenant Blum, her aunt's guest that evening,
jumped up and ran to meet me.
"I'm so glad you are here safe," said she. To her the idea of a girl
being out alone after six o'clock was almost inconceivable.
"I myself was on the point of going in search of _gnädiges Fräulein_,"
said Lieutenant Blum, with a low bow, much rattling of sword, and that
sneering smile which even his great black mustache fails to conceal.
"That was indeed kind of you, _Herr Leutnant_," I replied as sweetly
as possible. "You really didn't think me lost, or kidnapped, or
perchance murdered in cold blood, did you?" I added to _Mütterchen_, as
I took my seat.
"I might have thought even such frightful things as those, had not our
friend opposite insisted that you had been detained and that there was
no need of 'putting up my umbrella till it rained,'" she answered.
I looked gratefully across the table at the Poet's Wife, who smiled
understandingly back. Hers is one of those sunny, unselfish natures
which, "when they have passed the door of Darkness through," leave the
world a better place than they found it.
The serenity of perfect poise is such an enviable thing to possess!
Alas, that it is so seldom found in people of a musical temperament!
I can hardly imagine a placid Tschaikowsky or an unruffled Dvorák, can
you?
_Christmas Day._
[Illustration (musical score)]
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft, einsamwacht,
Nur das traute hochheilige Paar,
Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh'.
Can you see us as we stood on Christmas Eve in the quaint dining-room
singing together the old carol which has rung throughout Germany on
this night for centuries gone by? We formed a strange congregation--all
wanderers from different parts of the globe, for once united by the
Christmas spirit. There were eleven of us in all,--the Baron and
Baroness with Karl between them, their rosy, good-natured faces sober
and reverential; Herr Doktor, standing near, his critical expression
softened as, under the spell of the song, his thoughts turn to his Paris
hearthstone; Frau von Waldfel, forgetting, in the meaning of the hour,
to wonder what sort of goodies we were to have for dinner; Fräulein
Hartmann, lost in a dream, at her side; the Poet and his sweet-faced
wife, holding each other by the hand as they joined firmly in the
refrain; Herr Martens, abandoning his student airs to add a tenor, and
last--but best of all--_Mütterchen_. I sat at the piano to play the
accompaniments, where I could see not only them, but catch a glimpse
of the servants who stood together outside in the hall. They were all
arrayed in their best. Georg, especially gorgeous in the splendor of a
new livery with fully six dozen brass buttons, stood in the front row.
Next him was the cook, resting her hand on the head of her little
girl, who had been granted leave from the convent to attend this gala
occasion. The other servants crowded together behind them. For this
one evening in the year caste was forgotten, and the Baroness's strong
soprano joined with the alto of her maid as they led the rest in the
hymn each had sung from childhood.
All went well till we reached the second verse. Then I heard Herr
Martens' voice tremble, then break, then cease altogether. Poor fellow!
his family is scattered over two continents, and for him the word Home
is associated only with a sense of forlornness and loss. Gretchen, our
own little maid, but a year away from the Bavarian Highlands, hid her
face on Therese's shoulder. I looked at _Mütterchen_ bravely singing,
but I knew in my heart that she was thinking of Home. The picture of
those around the table across the sea flashed across me and I felt an
odd tightening at my throat.
It was only for a moment--this shadow of sadness on us all. Then it
suddenly vanished, for at the last note the Baron flung open the double
doors of the salon and ah! what a bewildering, fascinating, wonderful
tree was revealed! Karl and I exchanged glances with satisfied smiles.
We were proud of our work. The hours of labor in the morning spent
in tying on the varicolored balls, in hanging the tinsel favors, in
arranging the silver shower had not been in vain. It was indeed a
marvellous shower, delicate, fairy-like, falling from the very topmost
bough, where stood the figure of the Christ-child with outstretched
hands as if to bless those below.
For a moment we were breathless with admiration. Then "All for the
presents together," shrieked Karl in glee, "_Eins, zwei, drei!_" and in
we went.
Along the sides of the room ran tables covered with a white cloth and
trimmed with evergreen. On these the gifts were laid, not done into
parcels, but tastefully arranged. Each person had his own particular
group, and over it hung a bough of green and a basket of cakes and
candy. In one corner was a large table for the servants. _Mütterchen_
and I could not help smiling to hear the flood of joyous exclamations
on every side as we examined our presents. The German language seems to
have an endless supply of adjectives expressive of delight. There are
thousands of them, ranging from the sonorous _grossartig_, with the
prolonged rolling of the _r_s, to that overwhelming one which has such
a wealth of emphasis on the last syllable, _kol-os-sál_! When they are
all, as it were, turned on together, the effect is torrential!
After we had looked at our gifts and admired those of every one else,
and the servants, beaming with happiness, had shaken hands and expressed
their thanks, we went into the dining-room. Of course there was a
_Bowle_ and we drank, standing, a toast to "Merry Christmas." Then
we played a lot of games, which although childish afforded us much
amusement. Lieutenant Blum, with mustache more marvellously twisted
than ever, came in and joined us, and later Edith and Louise with a
lieutenant of the Second Regiment appeared. Just before twelve we all
set off for St. Michael's to attend the midnight mass.
The great cathedral was crowded when we entered, and we could only find
places in the chancel on the left of the altar. Thus we had a good view
down into the church itself, and by the flickering light on the pillars
dimly discerned the vast crowd kneeling in the pews, blocking the
aisles, and occupying every portion of available space. Beyond them and
above hovered mysterious shadows. It was almost oppressively silent.
Only the footsteps of those entering broke the intense stillness. The
sound, dying away in weird echoes high up beneath the vaulted roof, made
the silence which followed more absolute.
Suddenly the big bell on the Frauenkirche began to toll in wonderful,
mighty throbs. At the same moment, from above among the shadows, floated
down the sound of music--exquisite strains of Palestrina. The door on
our left opened and a long line of priests entered, clad in magnificent
robes of white and gold. We all fell on our knees in the semi-darkness,
our eyes turned towards the high altar, which alone gleamed like a
gorgeous jewel beneath the rays of a hundred tapers. The impressive
service began.
Through hazy clouds of incense I gazed down on the kneeling, worshipping
crowd, kneeling and worshipping just as thousands of other throngs were
doing at that very hour, here in far-off Germany, in France, in Italy,
and across the sea. The marvellous, beautiful meaning of it all stirred
me. My mind turned back through the ages to that night in the dusky
stable of Bethlehem. Surely it is the wonder of all wonders that one
Life--one brief, mortal Life, lived among millions of other lives--now
after the passing of centuries stands out as the sole link uniting all
Christendom.
Lost in the beauty of the service with its lights and incense and music
and gold-decked priests, it was with a start that I awakened as it
were from a spell when the music ceased, and the priests had filed out
through the arched door. The cathedral felt suddenly damp and chill, and
shivering, I pulled my cloak around me.
"I didn't care for the organist's selection at all," said Polly
critically, as we turned to go.
"We must walk as quickly as possible or we shall all be ill for a week
with colds from sitting so long in this damp church," added Edith in her
emphatic way.
But the Poet's Wife said nothing. She only looked at me with her deep,
unfathomable eyes, and pressed my hand gently. Sometimes she reminds
me of you, Cecilia. She is one of the few in the great world who
Understand.
V
MERAN, _January 1, 1903_.
The Happiest of New Years to you, Cecilia! Have you ever been among the
mountains in winter? Have you ever run away on a holiday to a quaint
little town nestling in the valley, and wandering through narrow streets
and climbing up snowy roads forgotten that such things as canons or
double counterpoint exist? If not, Cecy _mia_, get out your hood and
fur coat and start! But before you go, let me tell you that I have a
deep-rooted conviction: namely, that you can find no more entrancing
spot on the globe than Meran. For Meran, you must know, lies exclusively
apart from the rest of the world, deep down in the valley of the Adige
and jealously guarded on every side by high mountains, like a jewel in a
casket. The mountains themselves, covered with snow from base to summit,
are so magnificent and stirring that I call them Wagner mountains. And
oh! the sunset on their frosty peaks, when all the white is changed to
rose--it beggars description.
We left München on Christmas Day--just after my writing you. All the
_pensionnaires_ and servants came to the carriage and bade us good by
with much hand-shaking and expressing every possible good wish for a
pleasant journey, just as if we were to be gone a year instead of ten
days. Can you imagine spending Christmas riding through the Brenner
Pass? Let me tell you, too, there never can be anything more marvellous
than this same Brenner Pass in winter. There has been a heavy storm for
some days and it left the whole country half buried in a white cloak.
Snow, snow everywhere, covering every mountain, stretch of valley, and
hill! It is a grand sight. We were so enchanted with the scenery that we
forgot to mourn the lack of holiday festivities. Then, too, we did have
one important feature of the season, for it only needed a glance out of
the windows to discover a Christmas tree. Indeed we were in the midst of
a whole forest of them, only in place of tinsel and spangles we had the
lovelier decoration of pure snow, and instead of brilliantly colored
favors, from every branch hung pendants of flashing ice, which, like
finely cut gems, reflected the sunlight in flashes of all the colors of
the rainbow.
On the train who should chance to be in the next compartment but Miss
B---- from California, one of the students at the Conservatory. We had
a delightful chat over music. She is studying with Krause, and told me
quite a little about him. She says he is very erratic in his teaching
and never gives a lesson twice alike. Sometimes he paces up and down the
room while the pupil is playing. Often he gazes abstractedly out of the
window for fully a quarter of an hour, saying nothing. Again, he stands
with his back to the stove, hands behind him, apparently listening; then
suddenly darts out of the room and does not return for twenty minutes.
"When he teaches Beethoven it is a different story," she went on. "He
likes to do that better than anything. He draws up a chair and sits
close beside the pupil, following every note. The slightest mistake is
not overlooked. It's a fearful ordeal!"
We changed cars at Bozen, for only a single branch road, winding through
the picturesque valley of the Adige, connects Meran with civilization.
On our arrival we found the heartiest of welcomes from our friends the
S----s who were at the station. We drove at once to their home, which is
called "Villa Pomona," and is situated on the hill overlooking the town.
The servants greeted us at the gate, and the dogs came bounding out with
enraptured barks. Turning into the path leading to the house I had my
first good look at the villa. It is square, and constructed of yellowish
stone. Between the windows are frescoes representing the goddess of
plenty, the graces, etc. A terrace runs around it. It reminds one, in a
way, of the Pompeian houses. Inside, it is no less charming, and oh!
so delightfully American in its furnishings and arrangement! The only
discord in the harmony are the German porcelain stoves, but one can't
have everything and live in the heart of the Austrian Tyrol too.
We breakfast in the loveliest room upstairs. The windows command such
an inspiring view that one almost forgets to eat. Below lies the valley
itself with its one church spire and its mass of quaint, low yellow
buildings huddled together; on the heights at the right rises an old,
crumbling tower, the remnant of a once splendid castle; on the left
stretches out the valley, and far away there in the distance, so far
that the blue of the sky becomes misty, one sees the first spurs of the
Dolomites which guard the gateway into Italy. On every side rise these
majestic mountains of snow, whose peaks look as if cut out by a giant
knife, and laid against the background of an intensely blue sky.
When we have finished breakfast we generally take a walk to town. Our
objective point is the post-office, but we would accept almost any
pretext to wander down the hill and join the crowd strolling in the
sunshine on the Gisela Promenade. The Promenade lies across the river,
for an impetuous little stream cuts the village into two sections.
Accordingly, at the foot of the hill we cross the most picturesque of
stone bridges and find ourselves at once on the broad walk, which, lined
with fine old poplars, runs straight along the bank of the river. At
eleven o'clock the walk is crowded. Meran is not only a fashionable
resort in winter, but a favorite spot for invalids on account of the
perfection of its climate. One sees them always on the Promenade at
this time, walking slowly up and down, leaning back in wheel chairs,
listening to the music of an excellent _Capelle_, as they call the
orchestra, which plays here daily. If the weather happens to be cold,
which is seldom the case, the music can be enjoyed in the luxurious
Curhaus especially built for the purpose.
It was just by the band-stand, in the delightful sunshine of our second
morning here, that I had the pleasure of meeting Carl Zerrahn. You
remember the time when he was such a prominent conductor and musician in
Boston, do you not? We had sat down to rest and hear the music when Mr.
S---- pointed to the tall, commanding figure of an elderly man slowly
approaching.
"Here comes Zerrahn," he said; "he is, alas, almost blind now, and
cannot recognize any one except at close range."
A thrill of sadness swept over me, as I recalled him as the first
conductor I ever saw, standing on the stage at the old Music Hall and
sweeping the Handel and Haydn Society along in those great choruses of
the "Messiah" and "Elijah." His hair is now snow white, and his walk
feeble, but he stands as proudly erect as when he wielded the baton in
the height of his success.
He did not perceive us approaching, although the members of the
_Capelle_, who all knew him, watched us curiously. When we were within
a few feet of him, we introduced ourselves as old friends whom he
had, perhaps, by this time forgotten. It was charming to see his frank
delight in meeting us again and in learning news of Boston, which he
loves very dearly.
"I am staying with my son here," he said, "but I feel that Boston is my
home, and I shall go back there in a year or so. I worked and lived and
grew in Boston. It is to me what no other city is."
He asked about the Handel and Haydn Society, inquired about my
musical studies and the Munich opera, and was so thoroughly kindly and
interested in everything pertaining to his art that I could not but
think of Victor Hugo's lines, "There are no wrinkles on the heart."
In the afternoon we go driving over some of these countless roads about
Meran. It is like travelling through a magnificent picture gallery. The
other day we went shopping. You never saw anything so fascinating as
the stores. The principal ones are in the "_Lauben_," the quaintest of
streets, whose sidewalks are built under arcades. When we enter, the
girl in attendance always says "_Küss' die Hand_." The first time I
heard this I frankly put out my hand to be kissed. A laugh from them all
made me blushingly draw it back again. I learned that even here in this
cool sequestered vale of the Adige people do not say what they mean. It
seems the proper thing to murmur "_Küss' die Hand_," but no one but a
servant would ever think of actually doing it. It is a sort of "take the
will for the deed" arrangement.
The prettiest thing happened here this New Year's morning. We were all
sitting in Mr. S----'s study hearing the latest American paper (two
weeks old) read aloud, when there came a rap at the door. A moment later
the gardener, his wife, and two little girls entered, dressed in their
holiday clothes. They all bowed solemnly. Then the parents withdrew to
the background, the father nervously turning his cap around in his brown
hands, while his wife, in true German fashion, held the bundle, a huge
thing clumsily done up in white paper. The older of the two little
girls, who could not have been more than five, shyly advanced. In a
high, excited voice she recited a little poem about the New Year. Her
sister, no less thrilled by the occasion, recited very rapidly two more
verses about _Freude_ (joy) and _Glück_ (happiness). As a finale they
together took the bundle and with the prettiest of courtesies handed it
to Herr and Frau von S----, "with best wishes for a happy New Year
and many thanks for their kindness." The S----s were much pleased
and touched by this charming simplicity. The package proved to be a
beautiful plant of azaleas, and the whole quartet were radiant with
delight as we passed the gift among us and praised its beauty. They went
away with many bows, looking, oh! so happy, and Mrs. S---- ordered an
extra supply of beer for them in the kitchen.
That reminds me of a curious custom here. Did I tell you that a servant
is engaged at so much a week _with_ beer?[1] Mrs. S---- says the maids
make a dreadful uproar if their beer is not forthcoming, and the
cook insists on several bottles a day. I should think this might be
detrimental to the cooking, but Mr. S---- assures me that it has quite
the contrary effect, and the more beer she drinks the better she cooks.
[1] Also an English Custom.
This afternoon we took a long drive, returning through the town, so
I had a fine chance to see the peasants in gala array. Near a wayside
shrine (one finds them everywhere here) we came upon a crowd of young
peasants sitting on the stone wall, or leaning lazily against it smoking
meerschaum pipes. The splendor of their costumes was quite startling.
Their funny little round hats, usually severely plain, were coquettishly
decorated with bunches of yellow flowers fastened on the brim at the
back. Their coats and trousers were of corduroy. Most noticeable of all
were their waistcoats of scarlet or bright green.
"They seem to have very pronounced tastes," I remarked. "Isn't it odd
that some of them choose red and the others choose green, as if they
belonged to a college team?"
"There is method in their madness," answered Mr. S---- laughingly. "A
much more serious matter than a question of taste is at stake. Let me
inform you immediately, my dear young lady, that those whom you see
before you in red waistcoats are married men, while those in green
are bachelors and in the market, so to speak. It strikes me as not a
half-bad idea. Surely a girl can't innocently fall in love with the
wrong man here."
"Unless she is color-blind," I added.
It is time for supper, and as Mrs. S---- has promised us a real American
meal I don't want to risk being a second behindhand. No one can realize
what that means--a real American meal--unless one has been living for
four months on a German _pension_ diet. Why, after so many foreign
menus, I feel like the poor soul who "near a thousand tables pined and
wanted food." Yesterday we actually had muffins for breakfast. Think of
that when one is living in a country where the mere hint of hot bread
or ice water calls forth the remark, "I do not see why all you Americans
don't die of indigestion."
I can't get it out of my head that the officer I met on the Promenade
this morning was Lieutenant Blum. He passed by with a number of other
officers and several showily dressed women, all talking and laughing
loudly. It is quite possible that he might have come down here on leave,
but hardly probable under the circumstances. I did not get a full look
at his face. It was the swaggering walk and the little fat hand raised
to salute a brother officer that made me start and look again. By that
time he had almost passed. Nonsense! Probably this very minute he is at
the _pension_ accepting a cup of tea from Fräulein Hartmann's slender
hands, while Frau von Waldfel from behind the urn regards him with
admiring glances, for of course the Fräulein is not allowed to see him
alone. That would be a frightful breach of etiquette. Well, I will
let you know when I return. For her sake, I rather hope I was
mistaken.
INNSBRUCK, _January 3_.
Yesterday we regretfully left Meran, but the memory of our delightful
stay there will long haunt us, and we are living in hopes of another
visit to this earthly paradise. We reached Innsbruck at three
o'clock, and by four found ourselves here, in this most fascinating
of houses--for, Cecilia, we are actually living, eating, sleeping in
a castle, a real, _bona fide_ castle, once the hunting lodge of the
Emperor Maximilian. I see you start and your eyes glow. "A fig for
music!" you say; "Let me live in your castle." Yes, you who so revel in
mediævalism, to whom the glimpse of faded tapestries and dulled armor is
as so much wine, would surely be in your element here.
How this former resort of knights and retainers sank to the
materialistic, twentieth-century level of a _pension_ I have not yet
learned, nor cared to. All I know is that the grand old dining-room,
hung with ancient portraits of the royal house, still remains; that the
carved balconies with their worn railings overlooking the rushing
stream of the Inn, the narrow winding corridors, the high diamond-paned
windows, the picturesque terrace, the goblets, beakers, and trophies of
the hunt are yet here--decaying relics of a brilliant past.