enchanting of roof-trees. Leaving _Mütterchen_ to toast her feet by the
fire, I went in search of a book in the library. In the many twistings
and turnings of the corridors I lost my way. At length I found myself at
the top of a short flight of steps, and thinking this was only another
way to the library, I walked down them and along the hall. A worn door
was at the end. I pushed it open and entered. For a moment the darkness
of the place blinded me, coming as I had from the brightness of the
outer house. Then I saw more clearly there were people, yes, actual,
live people, kneeling on the stones and telling their beads within touch
of my hand. No one noticed me as I stood by the door. As I looked about
me I saw that I was in a chapel all of stone. Before me was an altar
decorated garishly with paper flowers. The light of the sacrament burned
dimly above, and cast a shadow on the rough crucifix hanging near. A few
rays of sunlight sifting in through the high window at the farther end
of the room sent a shattered shaft across the heads of the peasants,
who, absorbed in prayer, made no movement save to slip their beads along
their rosaries. The suddenness of the change, the sense of awe in coming
upon this one room, this one place set aside as a shrine in the very
midst of a busy household, was startling. I felt myself an intruder, and
noiselessly slipped away.
Upon inquiry at luncheon I discovered that it is the regular custom on
fête days for the people of the village to climb up the hill and attend
mass where the ruler of their fathers was wont to worship. On a second
visit I discovered that on the right, just after entering the chapel,
is a tiny square room which at a first glance looks like a cell. In the
rough stones of the wall a square hole is cut, and beneath it is a bench
to kneel upon. This place was the private oratory of the Emperor, and
here he used to attend mass, receiving the sacrament through the orifice
in the stones.
Can you imagine anything more fascinating than living in a house where
every nook and corner is alive with memories of the past? I could stay
here for weeks, but vacation is over and we leave for Munich to-morrow.
_January 11._
Here we are again in old München! Every one in the _pension_ expressed
him or herself as delighted to see us back, with all that cordiality
which is one of the most charming characteristics of the German nature.
I began again my lessons with Thuille on Wednesday. I had sent him
at Christmas a little remembrance, as is the custom here. Naturally I
expected he would thank me, but I was hardly prepared for what followed.
As at his "_Herein!_" I entered the smoke-wreathed studio, he tossed his
cigarette into the waste-basket, jumped up from his desk, and with both
hands extended came to meet me.
"_Ach! gnädiges Fräulein!_" he exclaimed, "you were so kind to remember
me in that charming way." Then what do you think he did? He bent over
my hand in the most dignified way and kissed it. I felt like an empress
holding court, and blushed to the roots of my hair at the honor he had
done me. I took my accustomed chair beside his at the piano, inwardly
praying that it would not be my ill luck to push off to the floor any
one of the dozens of cigarettes which always lie carelessly strewn
about. Then I placed my fugue on the music rack. Whatever I bring, be it
sonatina, invention, or merely a counterpoint exercise, Thuille daringly
plays it out _forte_. This is so different from the way Mr. Chadwick
does. He seldom if ever touches the piano when looking over work, but
takes the sheet and leaning back in his chair "hears it in his head,"
marking the mistakes with a blue pencil. My fugue was pronounced _recht
gut_, which made me very happy, for I had spent several hours over it.
When Herr Professor had finished with my work he brought out a piece of
music from the cabinet.
"Here is a thing which is worth your while to study," he said. It was
Mozart's Serenade in B flat major for wind instruments, including the
_corno di basetto_ and the _contrafagotto_. If you want a task, try to
play it from score at sight. Thuille rattled it off as though it were
the simplest exercise. I could not repress a sigh when he had finished.
"_Ach Gott_, my child!" he exclaimed, smiling at my hopeless expression;
"I don't expect you to play it now like that. Study the construction and
the instrumentation. You will learn much from it."
As I rose to go I noticed a number of loose manuscript sheets on his
desk.
"This is a new piece for orchestra I am doing," said he.
A page of full orchestra score always fascinates me. It's rather odd,
when you stop to think of it, now isn't it, that all those little black
dots with tails to them represent actual sounds of different instruments
and that they together produce an harmonic whole? There is as much
individuality in the writing of these dots as in handwriting. Thuille's
notes are very small, distinct, and closely written. Professor Paine
has a large, firm hand. Chadwick's notes appear as though hastily dashed
off, although perfectly legible. I remember distinctly the day he
showed me the score of his brilliant Symphonic Sketches. It looked
interestingly complex, although, to tell the truth, what impressed me
most were the original verses which preceded each sketch. They cleverly
portray a definite mood, and are, as it were, the key to what follows.
Never by any chance do these appear in the program book, so the listener
is left to puzzle out for himself just what the composer means to
convey.
I am to begin soon to study overture form, and Thuille asked me to bring
Beethoven's overtures with me at my next lesson.
_Later._
We are both much struck with the change in Fräulein Hartmann. She is
much paler than she was before we went to Meran, and flushes nervously
at the least excitement. _Mütterchen_, who has the misfortune to be next
to Frau von Waldfel at table, inquired if her niece were ill.
"Indeed, no!" answered the Hungarian woman somewhat sharply. "What can
you expect when a girl betrothed to an officer makes ready for a grand
wedding in the spring? There is much to be done and dozens of gowns to
be ordered. My niece is merely tired with the happiness of it all."
At that moment I caught Fräulein Hartmann exchanging a glance across the
table with the Poet's Wife. In that one, quick flash I read many
things, for the eyes of the former betokened genuine distress, while
the reassuring look which met hers was that of a sympathizing friend. A
second later the Poet's Wife was tactfully leading Frau von Waldfel
to give her views on the new cooking-school, while Fräulein Hartmann
abstractedly replied to the queries of a stout American woman who sat
next her. This new arrival is merely here for a few days. She and her
apologetic-appearing husband are "doing" Germany, Italy, and France
complete in three weeks.
"I want ter know where those pictures of Reuben are. Baedeker stars 'em
three times," said the stout traveller, turning to me.
I was longing to ask "Reuben who"? but _Mütterchen_, evidently sensing
my temptation, pressed my foot under the table; so I merely said
as politely as I could, "I think you mean the pictures in the old
Pinakothek by Rubens," and gave them the directions to Barer-strasse.
While they were commenting upon them, I wondered what could have
happened during our absence to make Fräulein Hartmann and the Poet's
Wife close friends. I wanted to ask if Lieutenant Blum had been at
Meran, but intuitively I felt it best not to mention the subject. Here
is indeed a romance to which I have found no key, as Omar would say.
The Conservatory is open again and everything is in full swing. In
spite of the fact that I have very little opportunity to practise on
the piano--because my work for Thuille requires the greater part of my
time,--I enjoy the lessons immensely. When we read at sight I find them
especially interesting. We have been playing some splendid things for
two pianos, among them those lovely Schumann variations in D major. If
you don't know them get them by all means. Yesterday we finished Brahms'
symphony in E minor, with its vigorous _allegro giocoso_, and have begun
Liszt's Symphonic Poems.
How everything helps everything else in music! The orchestra reveals its
nuances twice as clearly when one is familiar with the actual material
of a work, and then in composition it is absolutely necessary to have a
broad field of literature from which to draw models and examples.
Poor Frau Bianci is in a terrible state over my pronunciation of German.
"It will go in speaking," she says, "but, _ach Gott!_ must be much finer
for singing!" I managed to get Beethoven's "_Kennst du das Land?_"
to suit her, but only after much toil for both of us. I repeated each
phrase a dozen times after her before I was allowed to sing it. Truly, I
feel very young and irresponsible. Don't talk about musical temperament
and feeling to me! My one idea is to get the vowels open enough and to
pronounce these fiendish umlauts in the approved fashion. I fell down
most shamefully on Schubert's "Marguerite at the Spinning-Wheel." You
know how wonderfully sad and beautiful that is. Bianci was quite pleased
at my rendering of the first verse. Then I sang the second, where the
music works up climactically and the words run,
"Sein hoher Gang, sein' edle Gestalt,
Seines Mundes Lächeln, seiner Augen Gewalt,
Und seiner Rede Zauberfluss,
Sein Händedruck, und ach, sein Kuss!"
At this point Frau Bianci broke off playing, and leaned back in her
chair with a sigh. Then she said with cutting sweetness of tone, "The
idea of this song is to make your audience cry, not to make them laugh.
That word is _Lächeln, Lächeln, Lächeln_!"
I felt as though I had suddenly shrunk from Marguerite to a naughty
child of five. Then a sense of rebellion stirred me. I wanted to tell
her that I had not been born with a German throat, and that such things
as umlauts were a disgrace to any language. However, I controlled myself
and said nothing.
"I think you had better go into Hofregisseur Müller's class," she said.
"It will be of great benefit to you. Please attend to-morrow at nine
o'clock."
Very meekly I answered, "Yes, Frau Professor," as I picked up my music
and went out, not having the faintest idea who Hofregisseur Müller was,
nor what his sonorous title meant.
At nine the following day I was at the Conservatory. On the stairs I met
Miss P----, a Philadelphia girl who is in my piano class. She explained
to me that Herr Müller was the Regisseur, that is, the coach for acting
at the opera house, and that his class was the _Aussprache_, or dramatic
class, for the vocal students who were to sing in public. She herself is
studying for opera and finds her work with him very beneficial.
"But I'm not going on the stage," said I, quite startled. "What does one
have to do?"
Miss P---- laughed at my distressed expression. "Why, nothing but read
before the class. Your pronunciation is corrected by Herr Müller. It is
just as good as a German lesson," she said. "Oh, by the bye, don't mind
if they laugh at you. They always laugh at foreigners."
With this parting shot as my encouragement, I went in. The room, on the
upper floor just opposite the hall where we have the chorus rehearsals,
is large and barnlike. A grand piano stands in dignified solitude in the
centre, and at the end, near the green porcelain stove, is a long table
around which the class sits. Herr Müller has his place at the head. He
is an interesting type of man, very portly, with snow-white hair
and mustache, and a pair of noticeably keen, speculative eyes. The
appreciation of the humorous is strongly marked on his broad features.
"_Eine Amerikanerin!_" he said, smiling, as I came in. It is odd how
quickly the people here detect our nationality. He motioned me to a
chair, then slowly drew a large watch from his pocket and laid it on the
table before him.
"Well, Fräulein, what have you?" he inquired of the first girl on his
left, who promptly handed him the "Bride of Messina" and going to the
farther end of the room began to recite shrilly a passage by heart.
At every line the Herr Regisseur would thunder forth criticisms in his
great, vibrant voice. When her turn, which lasted five minutes, was
past, he called on the next girl, a soft-voiced, shrinking creature in a
low-necked blouse. She murmured haltingly that she had "_Das Veilchen_"
(The Violet). "_Ach! Das Veilchen!_" lisped he, with his head on one
side, in the same tremulous tones. The imitation was such a capital one
that we all laughed. In the bare room the effect was that of a hilarious
whoop. I began to see what was in store for me. After a few wretched
moments I determined to take the whole affair as a joke. There were
nine girls to be called on before it came my turn, but in what seemed an
incredibly short space of time they had all finished and Herr Müller was
calling my name.
"Recite one verse very slowly," said he.
"_Meine Ruhe ist hin_" (My rest is o'er), I began bravely, feeling how
poignantly applicable the line was to my present situation. Throughout
my recital I could plainly hear titterings from the girls, but I kept my
eyes firmly fixed on the picture of Beethoven over the door. When I had
finished, Herr Regisseur laid the book down on the table, leaned back
in his chair, and laughed. The whole class joined with him. Not to be
outdone, I laughed too, albeit somewhat weakly.
"Now much louder and slower, _Fräulein aus Amerika_," he said. "Repeat
after me, '_Meine Ruhe ist hin._'"
It was the same thing that I had tried with Frau Bianci, only now I
enunciated every syllable with painful effort, my voice pitched to
_fortissimo_.
"Not bad," said he, when I had finished, although his eyes twinkled.
"Learn another verse for next time."
We all went over to the Gärtner Platz Theatre last week to see "The
Geisha." The little opera house is very cosy, but oh! how strange "The
Geisha" sounded in its new word-clothes! From a musical standpoint it
was delightfully given, but to my mind the Germans have not snap enough
to produce light opera well. We have seen two or three things there,
among them Strauss' charming _Fledermaus_, and have invariably remarked
the same thing. The chorus sang excellently, but were selected with
absolutely no eye for beauty or grace. And how the Amazons did wear
their armor! They reminded me more of tired waitresses after a
hard day's work than the spirited war-maidens they were supposed to
represent. Sparkle, vivacity, delicacy,--all these elements which make
light opera what it should be,--were lacking. I am convinced that God
created the Germans for grand opera and that in the captivating froth of
operettas they are distinctly out of their element. One wishes he
might look into the music of the future and see how the school of
the versatile American will eventually evolve; whether it will be
individually characteristic, or blindly content to follow the path laid
down by its forerunners across the sea.
There is splendid skating now in the _Englischer Garten_. Last Saturday
after lessons six of us met at the _Sieges Thor_ with our skates. The
ice on the _Grosse Hesselohe_, the pond at the upper end of the garden,
was in excellent condition. At the farther end of it the International
Hockey Team, composed of men from the University of Munich and the
Polytechnic, was having a match with some strangers. The Germans skate
very well and seem devoted to the sport. This seems rather odd to me, as
they do not as a rule care for outdoor exercise except walking. Golf is
unknown as yet, and although they have a game which they call football,
it would hardly be recognized by that name in our country.
We had a delightful afternoon and came back ravenous for supper.
_Friday._
I haven't yet told you what a time I had to get the candy S---- sent. It
was the day after your bountiful Christmas box came. By the bye, I trust
you have received our acknowledgment of it by this time, and I want to
tell you now that the plum pudding was not hurt a particle. The cook
steamed it, and we invited all the _pensionnaires_ to share it with us
at dinner. If you could have but heard their compliments, you or your
cook would certainly have blushed with pride. Why, even Frau von Waldfel
confessed that, after all, people did have something good to eat in
America, a fact she had never formerly believed. But about the candy.
In my morning's mail I found a _Legitimations-Karte_. Doesn't that sound
imposing, as though I had graduated with honors from some academy?
It really is nothing more than a statement that a package lies in the
custom-house waiting to be called for. The office itself is in a large
room like a hall, and full of all sorts of bundles, boxes, and burlap
bags, which look like the accumulation of years. The blue-bloused
_Dienstmann_ behind the counter found my box for me and cut the string,
for which I, of course, gave him a tip. (You know nothing is free
in Germany. We have to pay even for our programs at the theatre or
opera.[2])
[2] A universal custom all over Europe.
Having concluded this first matter, I walked down a corridor and into
the room on the right. Here I took my place at the end of a long line of
people. It was certainly twenty minutes before I reached the scales,
for all the packages are weighed, you know. With impressive dignity the
burly man in charge leisurely weighed my box, recorded the number, and
directed me into yet another room.
Accordingly I made my way to the desk where duties are registered. Here
I waited again in line for some time. After all this red tape I fancied
I should have to pay at least six marks, but when my turn came I found
that only forty-five pfennigs were required before I could make my
escape. As I began tying my box together yet another of these persistent
officers accosted me.
"Your number," said he, as if I were a freshman taking an entrance
examination. I stared at him, then recalled the red figures on my
package.
"Two hundred and two," I said.
"You must step here," he announced authoritatively.
I was so tired of stepping this way and that, that my first impulse was
to refuse, but for fear that this might mean the sacrifice of my real
American candy, I followed him meekly into the next room, where he
solemnly scribbled something in a big black book. Then, with a flourish
which shook the gold fringe of his uniform, he handed me a paper.
"That is all," he said.
"All?" I asked. Now that escape seemed so near I doubted its
possibility.
"That is all," he repeated, with a low bow. I turned on my heel and
never slackened my pace till I was at the door of the _pension_. By this
ridiculous proceeding I had lost just two hours on my counterpoint. The
candy, however, is wonderful! I never tasted anything more refreshing.
Certainly, Germany is no place for candy--nor for doing things quickly,
either.
On the fifteenth came the first production in Germany of the French
opera _Messidor_ before a crowded audience at the opera house. The
libretto is by Zola and the music by Bruneau. The work is typical of
its school, especially in the orchestration. As in some of Massenet's
pieces, the trombones burst forth every few minutes, as if to say,
"Don't fancy for a moment, kind public, that we have gone out for a
glass of beer. We never miss but a few bars." The so-called symphonic
_Legende vom Golde_, a symbolic pantomime, if I may so call it, which
opens the third act, struck me as unutterably tawdry, but the last scene
had a perfectly charming setting, and the climax was very effective.
At the final curtain the composer was called out several times, but the
opinion of the audience seemed to be divided, for although the applause
was plentiful, continued hissing from the opponents of the French school
was distinctly audible. Bruneau is tall and slight, with black pointed
beard and waxed mustache. He responded in several constrained little
bows, as though charmed with the applause, and as if utterly unconscious
of any less complimentary sounds.
We are hearing much talk of balls and frivolity, for the carnival is
just beginning. Already the Baron is planning to make up a large party
for something, and of course I shall write you all about it. Louise and
Edith are coming over to do ear-training to-night at eight, and it is
already time for supper, so this must end my letter for to-day. All good
wishes for you.
M.
Do you know the "Beethoven-Lied" by Cornelius? The greater part of it
is composed of the principal theme of the first movement of the Eroica
Symphony. We sang it in the chorus hour on Thursday. I should think
it might be a splendid thing for your club to work at.
VI
_February 4._
_Du liebes Cecilchen_:--
I'd give every pfennig in my possession to walk into your study to-day
and take you by surprise. In fact, I have stopped in the very midst
of my orchestration lesson to tell you so. My chord of the seventh is
unresolved, my flutes and oboes are hanging in midair, and my horns are
blowing away on the fifth, all because a wave of the Indescribable swept
over me, and I simply had to throw down my pencil and talk to you!
The preliminary symptoms of this abominable Something appeared this
morning when my mail failed to arrive. Then after three hours' hard work
on a new fugue-subject, I came to the conclusion that what I had written
was absolutely worthless, and thrust it in the waste-paper basket. In
the afternoon no letters came, but several newspapers, whose essential
feature consisted in describing varied and brilliant festivities at
home. I could not repress a sigh as I read. Finally Georg came bowing
in with the announcement that the opera for the evening had been changed
and _Der Freischütz_ substituted for "Lohengrin." I felt like throwing
my ink-well at the Obelisk, running down to the booking office in
Promenade-Platz, and engaging a passage to America on the spot.
Not that I was really angry with the Obelisk, for I have but one dearer
friend in all Munich, and that is the Fountain. The latter, however, no
longer sings as I pass. It has, as it were, retired for the season, and
a hideous paling of gray boards hides it completely from view. Such is
the inartistic effect of winter. I can't tell you how much I miss its
ever sympathetic, ever beautiful voice. Indeed, so barren and desolate
is the upper end of the Platz, that I changed my route of walking and
thus came to make the acquaintance of the Obelisk. Not only do I pass
by daily, but whenever I look out of my window I can see in the distance
its slender, black shaft sharply outlined against the sky. Strange, is
it not, with what a keenly human note inanimate things sometimes appeal
to us? Just as I hear and love the Voice in the Fountain, so I draw a
feeling of protection from this towering creation of stone, as though a
kindly sentinel were standing guard over me and mine.
Since my mood to-day is gray in color, I am going to tell you of the
gayest thing which has happened since I wrote, namely, a gorgeous
masked ball, for you know it is carnival season now and frivolity reigns
supreme. I have been working so constantly lately--for my long lessons
with Thuille and the work at the school take practically every moment
of my time--that the ball seemed like an extraordinary piece of
dissipation. Therefore I was quite excited as I joined the party of
_pensionnaires_ in the salon on Tuesday evening. What a cosmopolitan lot
we were! The curious jumble of German, French, Italian, and English was
laughable. The stout American and her pocket-edition of a husband have
departed and given place to two Italian women who converse equally well
in three languages. The Poet's Wife always speaks perfect French
with Herr Doktor, which won his heart long ago. Of course we were all
chatting of the frolic to come as we clambered into the droschkies
awaiting us at the door. The ball, it seems, was given under the
auspices of the press. The Baron had obtained invitations for us through
a member of the _Jugend_ staff. (The _Jugend_ is that very artistic
periodical which you have perhaps seen.) There were so many of us that a
box had been engaged, for the affair was held at one of the theatres.
Every one who attended was obliged to wear a costume representing some
feature pertaining to the woods, and it required no little thought to
design something original and effective. Fräulein Hartmann and I had
decided to go as flowers, and _Mütterchen_ and the Poet's Wife put
their heads together and created a Rose gown and a Violet gown. Frau von
Waldfel was so agitated over her own costume that she quite forgot
to criticise ours. She had chosen to represent a bee, and had arrayed
herself in black netting. On her head was a crown of black and yellow,
and from her shoulders hung, or should have hung, a pair of gauze wings.
But something went wrong, and the wings, instead of suggesting airy
flittings through space, drooped at a curious angle and gave the
impression that they were not mates. However, her distress was mitigated
by the Baroness, who declared that the costume was "wonderfully
becoming," and as soon as she arrived she forgot to worry about her
wings in the excitement of the ball itself.