my enthusiasm, for at the close of the piece the audience burst into
a storm of applause, cheering, stamping, and crying "Bravo! Bravo!"
"Thuille! Thuille!" The whole house rose as one person. Thuille, who had
been sitting about eight rows back, at length came forward. He did not
mount the stage, but remained below the conductor's stand, bowing and
smiling in the delightful, unaffected fashion peculiar to him. Again and
again he was recalled, the audience remaining standing and applauding.
Clearly, aside from his musical ability, he is a great favorite in
Munich. When the tempest had at last subsided and we had settled back
into our places, Frau Langenhan-Hirzel appeared to play the concerto of
vom Rath. Her entrance was the signal for a fresh outburst of applause,
and there was no more enthusiastic group in the hall than ours in the
east corner, for Polly, Edith, and Louise are all her pupils and loyally
adore her. "Frau Langenhan," as they generally call her, looked very
young as she took her place at the piano. She is slight, and her
short black hair curls roguishly about her head, while a pair of dark,
innocent eyes give her an almost childlike appearance. But however
youthful she may seem, she plays with a mastery and force unusual in a
woman. Lescheticsky is proud of her I hear, and one can readily see why.
The concerto itself is most brilliant and was originally composed and
dedicated to her. Long and prolonged applause followed its close. Frau
Langenhan-Hirzel bowed repeatedly, and at length vom Rath came forward
and joined her. He is tall, with extremely light hair. In spite of his
dignified bearing he was blushing up to his ears with embarrassment, and
looked greatly relieved to sit down.
As for the last number, we had forgotten all about it, for we started
impetuously off to the green room. When we entered, there was the little
pianist calmly smoking a cigarette and carelessly shaking her black
curls from to time with a characteristic movement of the head. The
girls rushed enthusiastically up to her. After the first eager words
of congratulation they presented me, and she was most cordial in her
greeting as she turned and shook hands, holding her cigarette in her
fingers. Quite a number of the German women smoke and she does so
constantly, in fact even when giving lessons, which goes ahead of
Thuille.
But my head all the time was full of _Gugeline_--how could one forget
it?--and I looked about for Thuille. He was talking to Stavenhagen in
the corner, with his back towards me. A moment later he turned, and as
I went forward with outstretched hand he met me half way. The beauty
of his music had so intensely moved me, that I grew excited when I
endeavored to congratulate him, and my German flew away as if on wings.
I could only murmur stupidly something about "_wunderschön_" (very
beautiful) and "_entzückend_" (charming), the sole adjectives I could
at the moment recall. Perhaps my expression told him more than my words,
for he was good enough to look much pleased as he shook hands warmly.
Then we girls all came out together. None of us cared to hear the rest
of the last number. I for one wanted to be quiet and think--or rather
to hear again in my mind those haunting, exquisite strains. Is there
anything in the world more marvellous than music or more indescribable
than its hidden soul? And now I must to bed, and hear it all over again,
I hope, in my dreams.
MÜNCHEN, _March 6_.
As soon as my greetings with Thuille were over to-day I hastened to
congratulate him again on the success of his _Gugeline_ music last
Monday. This time my German was a little more fluent, and I even made
bold to ask him how long it had taken him to write the act. He said that
he started it in the middle of June, 1899. After waiting two weeks for
text from Bierbaum, and after countless other interruptions, he finished
it by the end of August.
Then began the lesson. With a sinking heart I placed my fugue on the
rack. I don't know how many hours I had worked on it! At any rate the
stretto had almost reduced me to tears. A stretto is a net, and if one
is not constantly on the watch, he is caught in its meshes. Thuille
looked it over, made some corrections, and to my surprise said, "_Sie
sind recht fleissig gewesen, Fräulein. Die Fugue ist gut_" (You have
been very industrious. The fugue is good). My spirits rose with a leap,
for he seldom praises.
The pupil who was to follow me was late, so I had time as I drew on my
gloves to express the wish that we might hear his new opera produced at
the Hof-Theatre.
"I don't know about that," said he laughing. "I am fortunate if I have
my _Lobetanz_ given. I expect that will appear about the twenty-second
of the month."
Turning, he opened one of the drawers of his desk. "Here are the
complete scores of them all," he said, as he touched the backs of the
great books with a tender, almost paternal pride; "and here is that
place for the wood-wind in _Gugeline_ which you remarked on."
He pointed out the passage in the score, and to my delight took his seat
at the piano and played for some moments.
"The most laborious thing I ever did in my life was writing out the
orchestral parts from here on," he said, playing the theme of the duet.
"I thought I should never get it done."
His words made me think of something Mr. Chadwick had said in class
one day, shortly after the completion of his lyric drama "Judith." He
declared that reducing the orchestral parts so as to make a complete
piano accompaniment was one of the most tedious things he ever
experienced. After all, my dear, the gods are just, and to be great does
not mean that one is free from drudgery.
Chadwick, by the bye, always had evidences of his energy on every
hand in the form of proofs or manuscript lying carelessly about in his
studio; perhaps a song, or a string quartette, or merely the key to
his harmony book which he was getting out last spring. Thuille, on the
contrary, has nothing to indicate what he is doing--except cigarettes.
After my lesson I stopped in at Polly's. I found her playing away at a
fearful rate on Saint-Saëns' G minor concerto, and she looked so pale
and tired that I made her call everything else off and go for a walk. We
found, however, that by hurrying we could spend a half-hour in the old
Pinakothek, and so we made our way to Barerstrasse. You must come over
if only to see these splendid Holbeins! The master's portrait of himself
is alone worth a trip, and then Dürer's four apostles! The St. Paul is
my favorite, he is so majestic, but Polly prefers St. Mark. She says he
looks happier than the others.
I must not forget to tell you about taking tea at the Sterners'. They
live over by the river, and we wandered through a maze of streets before
reaching the right house. Then we climbed numberless flights of stairs
in true German fashion, and found ourselves in the most charming
apartment under the very roof itself. Mrs. Sterner received us in a
picturesque, low-studded room, which had at one end a large bay-window,
where the tea table was spread. She is very slight and girlish in
appearance. As we sat sipping our tea I continually caught tantalizing
glimpses of a big studio at the farther side. It was not long before the
artist himself entered and invited us, when we had quite finished, to
see his "work shop."
Such a fascinating place as it is, not at all of the conventional
order, with bizarre nick-nacks and curios, oriental hangings, and stale,
tobacco-scented air; but a big, light-flooded, healthy room adorned
merely with sketches, pictures and easels, for the Sterners have only
pitched their tent in Munich for a brief season and are off in the
spring for Italy.
There is a wealth of treasures in Mr. Sterner's portfolio, and his field
of work is a delightfully broad one. Of his illustrations, those for a
new edition of Edgar Allan Poe's works interested me most. Each picture
had such definiteness about it that one could guess at once the lines it
interpreted. Two of his most famous paintings which we asked to see
were in America, but he showed us the exquisitely taken photographs.
One represents a charming child, the other is that which I have seen so
often in your own music room,--William Mason at the keyboard.
"And the new picture, is it finished yet?" asked Edith, who had been
there before.
"It's the old story!" he said; "I've put it aside to work on
pot-boilers!"
Fancy calling those wonderful illustrations of his by such a brutal
name.
_Thursday._
At last, my dear, I have something definite to tell you about Fräulein
Hartmann. The most distressing thing occurred at dinner to-day. Just as
we were having salad and composedly conversing about Arabic customs--a
favorite subject of Herr Doktor and the Poet--in came the Italian
ladies, with profuse apologies for their tardiness. They had been
"doing" the Bavarian National Museum, and lingered too long over the
ivory collection. One of them crossed to Fräulein Hartmann's place and
handed her a letter.
"I met the postman on the stairs," she said, "and told him I would take
any mail up, so he gave me this."
Fräulein thanked her for her kindness, then, glancing at the
handwriting, suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. A second later
her aunt, who had been looking over her shoulder, snatched the letter
from her hand. Frau Von Waldfel's face was crimson with anger and her
black eyes snapped maliciously.
"I'll look after this, young lady," she said, thrusting the letter into
her pocket. "A pretty pass when engaged girls receive love letters from
other than their betrothed."
Her voice echoed harshly in the complete stillness of the room.
Fräulein's face was a study--anger, mortification, and resentment at
the insult thus publicly inflicted on her. She started as if to retort,
then, recovering her self-possession, she folded her napkin with
dignity, rose and left the room. Her head was proudly erect, but her
blue eyes, usually so tranquil, were smouldering darkly.
Frau von Waldfel looked even more enraged than before, that her niece
should dare to depart without her permission. Muttering to herself, she
pushed back her plate with a sharp rattle of her knife and fork, and
went out with a heavy step.
We were all speechless with astonishment. The opportune arrival of
coffee served to relieve the tension, and the calm voice of the Poet's
Wife was like oil on tempestuous waters, as she inquired whether coffee
were a favorite drink of the American people. When the meal was over she
drew me into the hall.
"When you are through with your lessons come and see me in my room," she
said.
That afternoon she told me the following about Fräulein Hartmann. It
seems that Fräulein's parents, who live in Mannheim, are poor people.
Her aunt, however, is extremely rich. When, last spring, Fräulein came
out of the convent, Frau von Waldfel sent for her to pay her a visit.
She was very ambitious that her niece should make a brilliant match, for
she is, as you must have guessed, an intensely proud woman. Indeed, so
anxious was she that she offered to pay the dowry and introduce Fräulein
into society. This offer was accepted with delight by the Hartmanns, and
Fräulein made her début in Berlin, where her aunt had taken a fancy to
spend the winter. Among other men whom she met was Lieutenant Blum. He
had, without doubt, heard the rumors of Frau von Waldfel's wealth,
for he immediately began to pay court. Matters were speedily arranged
between the two families and the young people were betrothed. Fräulein's
parents were greatly pleased; Frau von Waldfel, radiant. Such an honor
that her niece should wed an officer! Only Fräulein Hartmann did not
seem to rejoice as she should over the good fortune. She would have
been less than human had not all these beautiful surroundings, these
fascinating frocks and these flattering friends of her aunt pleased her.
But there was another man--there always _is_ a third person when you
stop to think of it--in form of a student, who had lived next door to
the Fräulein all her life. He loved her, and she was half in love with
him. In fact, affairs would speedily have come to a climax had not Frau
von Waldfel taken it into her head to send for her niece just as their
love-affair was at this critical point.
"As time has passed," continued the Poet's Wife, "the less she has
cared for the lieutenant and the more she realizes that her feeling for
Heinrich is deeper than the passing fancy which her family would have
her believe. Don't blame her, my dear. You American girls are brought up
very differently from ours here, and it is hard for you to understand.
The letter to-day was, I feel sure, from Heinrich. Much as she
has longed to hear from him, she is too honorable to permit any
correspondence. A short time ago, however, Heinrich wrote a letter
without her aunt's knowledge, and begged her to see him. After much
misgiving she consented and a meeting was arranged----"
"At a carnival ball?" I interrupted.
"Yes. How did you guess? Probably the rash fellow has dared to write and
propose another scheme. 'Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,'"
she quoted.
"How will it all come out, I wonder," said I, puzzled.
"Indeed, I am wondering the same thing. It was while you were in Meran,
you know, that Fräulein told me this. Her aunt was ill with the gout,
and one morning we went for a walk together. She was feeling very
unhappy, for in some way an unpleasant rumor concerning Blum's past had
reached her, and I suppose the dear child couldn't keep her heart pent
up any longer."
At her mention of Meran my mind flew back to the day I had seen the man
I thought was Blum on the Promenade.
"Was the lieutenant in town then?" I asked.
"No. He had been called away on some law business," she answered.
A caller came in just at this point, so we had no more opportunity to
talk together. I feel perfectly sure now that it _was_ Blum who was
having such a gay time with that crowd of people. He may have used that
law story merely as an excuse to take a holiday. I can't bear to think
of that sensitive, lovable girl as his wife!
Dear me, Cecilia, this is a strange, strange world! One would imagine
that with experience and the discretion which comes with years, things
would straighten themselves out a bit; but the older one grows the
queerer life is!
Yours problematically and abstractedly,
M.
VIII
_March 22._
_Cecilia dear_:--
There is the smell of spring in the air to-day. As I passed through
Odeons-Platz on my way to my lesson this morning the sun was flooding
the whole square with a delicious warmth we have not felt for months.
A soft breeze brought across from the Hof-Garten the odor of freshly
upturned earth. In front of the Feldernhalle the pigeons were fluttering
and whirling, now suddenly swooping down from the roof, then darting
back again like arpeggios of light. Around the flag pole a crowd of
laughing children were tossing crumbs, and then running shyly back
into the arms of their bareheaded nurses as the birds flocked near. The
scene, in a dim way, suggested the Piazza of San Marco, and I gave a
sigh for a sight of Venice,--its blue, unruffled waters, its marble
palaces, and the white dome of the Maria della Salute against its
peerless sky.
That reminds me of a secret I have to tell you. What do you think? In
April comes the spring vacation at the Conservatory, and _Mütterchen_
is contemplating for us--mind you, I say contemplating--a trip to the
Italian lakes. Think of it--Bellagio, Como, Lugano and all the rest! I
don't dare give myself up to dreaming, however, for nothing about it is
as yet definitely settled.
Frau von Waldfel and her niece have gone to Berlin. They intend to
stay several weeks in order to complete Fräulein's already elaborate
trousseau. My own opinion is, however, that the aunt has read Heinrich's
letter and wants to get her niece away from Munich for fear she may meet
him. Ever since that shocking occurrence in the dining-room neither Frau
von Waldfel nor the Fräulein have come to the table, but have had
all their meals served in their rooms. Of course we do not see the
lieutenant now, for which I am duly grateful, but I do miss the Fräulein
and our pleasant chats together.
The days and lessons have been going on just as usual save for the
interruptions afforded by the celebration of the Prince Regent's
birthday which came on the twelfth. Early in the morning Louise and
Edith called for me to go to the great military mass at St. Michael's.
It is a rare thing for women to have cards, for this service is held for
the soldiers alone. According to directions we made our way up a flight
of narrow stairs which led from the sacristy, and found ourselves in
the corridor of a balcony. From this corridor lead several little rooms
which are called by the theatrical name of boxes. Most of them are
reserved for the royal family and persons of rank. The one which was
allotted to us was almost behind the high altar and facing the entire
congregation. We could not be seen because no light from the church
itself fell on the little glass windows, tightly closed, which covered
the front of our box, but we could see excellently, and I shall never
forget the brilliancy of the scene. I could not help but contrast the
sight before me with that which I had beheld within these same walls
last Christmas Eve. Now the church was filled with a throng of men in
dazzling uniforms--here a company of privates with white-plumed helmets,
there a group of officers in the Bavarian blue and scarlet, in the
farther corner a coterie of generals in cream-colored broadcloth,
countless orders gleaming across their breasts. The members of the royal
house were seated directly beneath us in the choir. They were in full
uniform, and sat in great chairs of red velvet with kneeling cushions
of the same color at their feet. On the altar steps stood a company of
soldiers with black plumes to their helmets, while separating the men in
the nave from those in the choir stretched a great orchestra.
What a wonderful sea of color it was! The sunshine pouring through
the long windows made the gleaming swords, the shining helmets and the
gold-fringed epaulets a thousand times more brilliant. At the close of
the service the band suddenly struck up the Hallelujah chorus from
the "Messiah." I cannot tell you how impressive it was to hear these
familiar strains amid such strange surroundings. I thought of the
many times I had heard them sung at home. Then as the trumpets rang
gloriously out on that mighty phrase, "King of Kings!" and the whole
orchestra came in _fortissimo_ with the wonderful "Hallelujah!" which
echoed and re-echoed in the lofty arches, a blur came before my eyes.
Ah, Cecy dear, the world may call Handel old fashioned and laugh at his
simplicity, but who has ever written a hymn of praise so powerful, so
convincing as this?
On Monday, as usual, came the Weingartner concert. Beethoven's seventh
was gloriously given! Weingartner takes the first movement slower than
I have ever heard it at home, but in the _allegro con brio_ he simply
sweeps the orchestra along. At the close of the concert occurred the
usual ovation, a number of enthusiastic admirers staying to cheer and
applaud until the lights were put out. Weingartner's conducting of
Beethoven without score is far more inspiring than any other directing I
have ever seen, just as the words of an extemporaneous speaker are more
forceful than one who confines himself to notes.
I was sorry that I could not go to the _première_ of Thuille's
_Lobetanz_, but I attended the second presentation and enjoyed it
immensely. It is just such a dainty thing as one would expect from
his pen but, by the bye, is not really an opera at all. The program
announced it as a play by Otto Julius Bierbaum with music by Ludwig
Thuille. At first, therefore, I was slightly disappointed, but the
whole thing is so charming that I soon forgot my annoyance at the spoken
dialogue. The Princess, whom Lobetanz loves, was beautifully played by
Tordeck. In the second act there is a lovely bit, when Lobetanz (Herr
Walther) plays his violin under the tree and sings of the Princess'
eyes. The text is in reality a fairy tale, full of imagination and
delicacy.
I was discussing the performance with the little Boer after my lesson
at the school to-day when who should come breathlessly up the stairs but
Edith. She had been to the house for me, and finding me gone had come
down to the Conservatory.
"I want you to go shopping with me," she said. "Do come and help me buy
a pair of shoes."
So we set out together towards Marien-Platz. Oh, my dear Cecilia, if
you ever come to Germany, be sure and bring enough clothing of every
description to last till your return. German ladies are not at all
particular about the cut and fit of their gowns, and as for their
footwear! Such a time as we had to-day trying to buy those walking
boots! In the first place we could find nothing narrower than _d_ and
Edith has the daintiest little foot imaginable. Then all the shoes
we saw were so broad, flat and shapeless, that they had a positively
inhuman appearance. Edith said they looked as though they had been made
for ducks. It was hopeless to try and make the Fräulein understand what
was wrong.
"Of course it's--it's very er-serviceable," said I, holding a clumsy
thing at arm's length and surveying it critically, "but isn't it just a
little too broad?"
The Fräulein cast a withering glance at us. "Broad?" she said, "why it's
not broad at all."
"Oh!" said I.
"And they suit perfectly the Countess von R----, Frau Excellenz von
S----, Frau General-Secretariat M----."
"I'll go barefoot before I'll wear those boots," exclaimed Edith in
English, her cheeks flushing, "and I don't care a fig what these ladies
with the long titles wear!" Then, in German, "Fräulein, the shoes are
quite impossible. Good morning."
With the bearing of an injured queen Edith swept out of the store, I
following meekly, and the Fräulein gazing after us both in open-mouthed
astonishment.
It was not till we were half way up the street that I dared to break the
silence in which my companion had enveloped herself.
"It occurs to me in a vague sort of way," I began timidly, "that
the Baroness mentioned that a new shoe store had been opened on
Residenz-strasse. I think she said they kept American shoes."
Edith's face softened. "Then by all means let us go there," she said.
"I'm afraid the barefoot idea would be rather uncomfortable in bad
weather."
Never did the qualities of American shoes appear so attractive as when
we saw them invitingly displayed in the window of the new shop. Edith
was so delighted at finding something that would fit that she paid
without a murmur the fabulous price demanded, and invited me to drink
chocolate with her afterwards at the Hof-café.
But just take a word of warning, Cecilia, and don't get caught in any
such predicament yourself!
MUNICH, _April 2_.
The softest zephyr whispering to a rose; the faint fragrance of a lily
swaying on its stem; a fairy cobweb lying shimmering in the sun; this
is Beethoven as played by Ysaye. Never shall I forget his playing, and
never do I want to hear any one else play the G major sonata.
Frau Langenhan-Hirzel and Ysaye are giving a series of concerts
consisting of Beethoven's sonatas for violin and piano. Polly and I
"went Kategorie" last week. To "go Kategorie" means that we used our
students' tickets, or _Kategorie-Karten_, and obtained admittance at
a reduced price. We did not receive a seat, and indeed none were to be
had, for as we entered the hall of the Bayerische Hof, every place was
taken and crowds were standing in the aisles. Accordingly, we made our
way to the balcony, for beneath the windows there runs a low, broad step
which answers very well in place of a seat. When we arrived, however,
we found that this, too, had been taken possession of by a crowd of
students who were sitting closely together, their knees almost touching
their chins, and most of them holding the score on their laps. We were
at a loss what to do, for that we might be obliged to stand had never
occurred to us.
"There must be a step or a window ledge somewhere," said Polly, looking
vainly about. Suddenly I spied a table in the corner, and I threw her
a meaning glance. Quick as a flash she understood and was too good a
Bohemian to be troubled by conventionalities. A moment later we were
gravely sitting on the table side by side, our feet not touching the
floor, our eyes not seeing the stage, but our ears straining to catch
every note of that wonderful music. Polly had brought her score. One of
the players in the Kaim Saal orchestra comes to her weekly and they read
together, so she is familiar with all the sonatas. But after a time I
shut my eyes to the printed symbols. I wanted only to hear, for from the
moment Ysaye draws his bow across the strings "the weariness, the fever,
and the fret" fade away, and one lives in another world. I have never
heard anything more exquisite than his _pianissimo_. So marvellously
_legato_ and delicate it is, like a thread of gold, that I held my
breath for fear the tone might break. It reminded me of all that is
beautiful and dainty and lovely. By some odd association of ideas,
Shelley's lines about the lily of the valley came to me:
"The light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green."
Frau Langenhan-Hirzel played delightfully. But what impressed me most
forcibly about her and about Ysaye was their perfect control.