deeply an artist's feelings may be stirred, no matter how moved he may
be by the intensity, the passion or the anguish of the moment, he must
always be the master of his emotions. He must make others cry, weep,
exult, but must himself, while sensing every suggestion, remain in
perfect realization of the situation. Picture Elizabeth sobbing in the
midst of the Tannhäuser prayer! Or Paderewski breaking off in the middle
of a bar and burying his face in his hands! And yet an artist must feel
more keenly than the average man. Verily, the gods demand miracles!
How happy I am to write you that the trip southward bids fair to be
realized within a short time. We have heard from friends who have
landed at Naples and who hope to meet us at Milan. You can imagine how
delighted we are to think of seeing some one from home, for letters at
best are unsatisfactory things. I have so many questions to ask about
everything and everybody that I shall be worse than the proverbial small
boy.
_Mütterchen_ and I have been down to Promenade Platz this afternoon
buying trunk straps. Every time we return from a trip we find that our
straps have mysteriously disappeared and no one seems to know anything
about them. I fancy that those solemn-looking guards could enlighten us
considerably if they chose. The weather was so delightful that after we
had finished our shopping, which had led us down Maximilian-strasse,
we decided to take a stroll along the Gasteig Promenade by the Isar.
We found ourselves in the midst of an idly sauntering throng, for the
greater part of München had turned out to luxuriate in the sunshine. Oh!
my dear, how it would shock your fastidious taste to see the new _Reform
Kleid_. All winter the women showed unpleasant symptoms of adopting this
form of dress, and now that spring has come the fever has burst forth.
The garments are all entirely in one piece, hanging straight downward,
without shape or curve, totally ignoring the existence of a waist line.
Most of them suggest nothing so strongly as _robes de nuit_, and some
which have straps over the shoulders remind one of a feminine species of
overalls. They are invariably too short in front, and as the fashion for
white shoes prevails (may the gods spare you the sight of white shoes on
German feet!) the effect is grotesque in the extreme. I believe the one
virtue of these remarkable gowns is that they are comfortable, but so
are bathrobes, sweaters, and négligés.
Even such a disturbing element as the _Reform Kleid_ was in time
forgotten, for it is very lovely down here by the Isar, that same "Isar,
rolling rapidly," of which everyone has read. In place of green banks
are high walls of white stone over which trails picturesque ivy from the
terraces on either side. The Promenade itself stretches along the edge
of the embankment, under great shady trees. So delightful was it that we
wandered down to the Peace Monument and lingered there till six o'clock.
The sunset was not especially brilliant, but the clouds which remained
hanging low in the fast-darkening sky were wonderful indeed. They shaded
from a dusky violet to deep, rich purple, and their music was that of a
Chopin prelude, not one of those tempest-tossed visions, but perhaps the
tender, half-melancholy one in B flat.
There is to be a _Vortrags-Abend_ to-morrow night which marks the end
of the spring term at the Conservatory. Fräulein Mikorey, a pupil of
Stavenhagen's, is to play a Beethoven concerto, a student named Sieben
is to play the violin, and I am to sing. Wish me luck, _Liebchen_!
_Evening._
Just a line before I go to sleep to tell you that everything went
off beautifully at the concert to-night. In one way it was an awful
experience--_awful_, dearest of friends, in its most literal sense.
This was not on account of the hall, I assure you, although it looked
marvellously great and high as one stepped out of the dressing-room; nor
was it because of the imposing audience, nor the crowds of pupils, who
stood with critical attention around the sides of the room. Each of
these factors may have its individual influence in striking terror
to the heart of the timid performer, but they are all as nothing,
absolutely nothing, I say, in comparison with that austere,
black-coated, solemn-visaged line of professors who occupy the front
row. You cannot imagine anything more terrifying than to stand on the
platform and look down on this human barricade which shuts one off, as
it were, from all that is friendly and encouraging. Stavenhagen sat in
the centre, with arms majestically folded. On either side were the two
women teachers of the school, and then to right and left stretched that
line of frigid stateliness. There was a certain horrible fascination
about it all, for try as I would to look over into the audience or up
at the balcony, I found my glance always nervously returning to some
dignified head posed at a critical angle, or some pair of hands with
finger tips pressed together in judicial attitude.
The moment after I made my very quaint, very German courtesy--a ceremony
insisted on by the Frau Professor--I suddenly became terribly conscious
of the fact that I was an American, that all these people before me were
German, and that I was about to sing to them in Italian. If I had dared,
I should have smiled. It was as if Italian were a language of commerce,
by means of which I was to make a communication to the audience.
But, dear me! I forgot all about that and everything--yes, even the
depressing effect of the front row--when once I got to singing. And when
it was over I could have hugged the fellow who cried "_Bravo! Amerika!
Amerika!_" What mattered it that it was only an unpretentious pupils'
concert? I could not have felt any prouder if it had been my début
in grand opera when Stavenhagen and Thuille congratulated me, and the
latter said, in his kind way, "We must make that counterpoint run as
easily from your pen as those tones from your lips."
When one studies singing merely for the love of it, it is all very well,
but it would make your heart sick to see the number of American girls
over here who are half-starving themselves in order to study for
the grand opera stage. One sadly wonders how many of them will ever
"arrive," but when an argument is raised or a doubt expressed as to
their ultimate success, they immediately cite the case of Geraldine
Farrar, the American who is at present singing leading rôles at the
Berlin opera house. The brilliancy of her success blinds their eyes to
hundreds of utter failures, to countless half-way successes and to the
untold drudgery which lies along the road.
IX
GORDONE, LAKE GARDA, _April 10_.
_Dear Cecilia_:--
I am writing in the loveliest and most romantic of gardens. It lies on
the very edge of Lake Garda. Indeed, only a wall separates this wealth
of green from the blue waves which plash rhythmically against their
stone barrier. Above me are the apple blossoms; on either side lie
tangles of vine and roses. In the distance are the neat white paths
leading to the hotel where we are staying. It is not quite so civilized
here as farther up the slope, where the plants grow in decorous rows and
carefully laid out designs, but I like it much better, and besides, I
get the breeze--a soft, _legato_ breeze--from the water, and a sight of
the picturesque island--as yet nameless to me--just across.
We found our way to this charming spot by means of our old friend,
the Brenner Pass. How changed it all was from three months ago! Then
everything was covered with snow, and the trees bowed into crystal
arches under the heavy weight of ice. Now the whole earth seems made new
with the soft green of spring. As we rode along every now and then we
caught sight of a fruit tree in full bloom: peach blossoms of misty pink
making their bit of valley all aglow, apple blossoms lighting up the
shadow of a threatening, black mountain, whose snow-tipped summit seemed
in some strange way akin to the patch of white at its base.
We reached Bozen at seven o'clock, and to our chagrin could find
no accommodation at the hotels. In vain we pleaded with the polite
proprietors. At loss what to do we followed in the footsteps of a
stupidly smiling _Dienstmann_ who had seized our luggage at the station
and who now assured us he knew of an excellent inn where we could find
rooms. Putting our trust in the gods we turned into the courtyard of
a quaint little inn called the _Goldene Taube_, and inquired of the
smiling Hausfrau if we could have lodgings for the night. With repeated
courtesies she replied that there was but one room left, but it was a
wonderfully beautiful room if we cared to see it. We assured her that we
would take it on the spot, and gratefully climbed three narrow flights
of stairs without a murmur. Though extremely primitive, the house was
neat and clean, but we involuntarily exchanged glances when the landlady
threw open the door at the head of the last flight and bowed for us to
pass into the room she had so flatteringly described. Such a cubby-hole
of a place, with a sloping roof, no carpet and one diamond-paned window,
from which, by stretching out my arm, I could touch the window of the
opposite house! Did I say no carpet? Then I most humbly apologize, for
before each bed was a blue fragment which, by a powerful stretch of
the imagination might, I suppose, be called a rug. The floor creaked
unmercifully every time we walked across it, and we were terribly afraid
we should lose something between the cracks. _Mütterchen_ was inclined
to regard the situation tragically, but I was rather enjoying the whole
experience, secretly congratulating myself on being in an attic chamber
which might bear some resemblance to those in which the great composers
slept, ate, toiled and created their immortal works.
We had a walk and a drive the following morning and found Bozen much
like Meran; both have the same dingy _Lauben_, the frescoed houses, the
narrow streets and picturesque shrines. Our drive to Gries was through a
veritable garden, for the fruit trees were abloom on every side. In
the afternoon we took the train to Riva, a train which ran over the
narrowest track I ever saw, high up on the mountains.
Riva is a charming place at the head of the lake, and has a most
wonderful new road cut through tunnels of rock along the precipices of
the west bank. I bought four oranges just as we were going on board the
boat for the ridiculous sum of twenty heller (five cents). You should
have seen the man who was selling them. He looked like the genuine
villain of comic opera. He wore a black, broad-brimmed hat pulled low
over his eyes, a full cape, which fell to his feet, with a collar of
well-worn fur, and gold earrings. He was very gray and wrinkled, and oh!
how he tried to cheat me! I had not had the sad and bitter experiences
of shopping in Rome six years ago for nothing, however, and so I
determined to settle on a price and remain firm. Accordingly I offered
twenty heller for four oranges. My Italian is not fluent. It is limited
to musical terms and a few selections from grand opera. I tried to
recall something fitting, but the only lines which came to me were those
of an aria from _Semiramide_, which could hardly be said to fit the
occasion. How grieved, how shocked he looked--the old rascal!--as he
assured me that he could not permit his wonderful fruit to be so cruelly
sacrificed, although nothing would delight him more than to please the
American signorina. Accordingly I turned to go in dignified silence.
In a second the oranges were done up in paper and given over, with the
astounding announcement that never before in his life had he allowed
his fruit to be sold at so absurd a sum, but--with a telling glance from
under his black hat--the charms of the signorina were irresistible. At
my first opportunity I told of the bargain I had made.
"Twenty heller for four oranges!" exclaimed the gentleman who sat next
us. "Why, my dear young lady, for thirty heller (eight cents) I just
bought a whole dozen!"
The sail down the lake is a beautiful one. Such picturesque little towns
nestling down by the shore, such bewildering orange groves along the
hillsides, such quaint spired churches perched in the most inaccessible
places! The "witchery of the soft blue sky" enchants one. The lake,
too, is of a wonderful tint. What a land this must be for artists! Such
color, color everywhere! I wonder they don't all come over here and live
forever.
The card which I sent you from München, told you we were going straight
to Milan, so you doubtless are wondering how we chanced to stop off
here. Just as we were leaving Garda our boat ran aground. This caused
the wildest commotion among the townspeople who came flocking down to
the shore and stood in lines along the breakwater--the women and girls
bareheaded, with red shawls about their shoulders and blue aprons over
their short skirts, the men and boys in loose shirts, with scarlet
handkerchiefs carelessly knotted about their throats and any sort of
a cap on the back of their heads. They shouted to each other, they
gesticulated wildly, they speculated on the length of time before we
could be launched. Indeed, I do not believe there had been as much
excitement in the little village for years. So long were we delayed that
on inquiry we found that we should arrive too late to catch the train
for Milan, and on the suggestion of an English lady with whom we had
become acquainted in that delightfully informal way known to travellers,
we decided to stay at Gordone over night. That is how I chanced to be
writing in this fascinating garden and to be hearing how Italian birds
sing their morning pæan.
I did not have time before leaving München to tell you of the last two
concerts we heard there. The first was the presentation of Bach's St.
Matthew under the direction of Zumpe, with the Hof-Theatre chorus,
orchestra and soloists. It strikes me that the Germans do not know how
to sing oratorio. They lack that broad, _cantabile_ style. Indeed, this
branch of music is heard least of all here. Outside of the Rhine towns,
which, I hear, have occasional festivals, little interest is shown in
oratorio. At the St. Matthew the artists sang unsympathetically, but the
choral singing was magnificent. Is there anything in the world
grander, more truly religious than a Bach choral? One listens and the
complexities, the sordidness, the trivialities of life all vanish. One
feels only his own insignificance and humbly raises his voice with the
rest in adoration of that Greatness which is eternal.
The other concert was the last one in the Weingartner series. The hall
was packed with people, many of whom were standing. The program began
with Cherubini's overture to Anacreon. Then came a delightful concerto
by Haydn for strings, two obligato violins and an obligato 'cello. Last
of all was Beethoven's ninth symphony. The stage had been enlarged to
accommodate the big chorus. This was the first time I had ever heard
this stupendous work. The singers sang with great spirit and as though
they loved every note. What a magnificent main theme that is with the
rushing counterpoint in the strings! I should think the clarinet players
would be in their element, there are so many lovely bits for that
instrument. And the drum in the scherzo--who could ever forget it?
At the close of the concert Weingartner was presented with an enormous
laurel wreath, amid the prolonged cheers and applause of the audience.
After coming out repeatedly to bow his thanks, he finally expressed them
in a graceful little speech. I was too far away to catch all that he
said, but at the end his _Auf Wiedersehen bis nächstes Jahr_ (Till we
meet again next year) brought forth a tremendous thunder of applause.
And so exit Weingartner. I do hope I shall see him conduct again before
I leave Germany.
This afternoon we take the boat across the lake and then the train to
Milan,--so _addio carissima_, as they say in this lovely country.
MILAN, _Easter Sunday_, _1.20 A. M._
Easter Sunday is just beginning, and I am about to retire after an
evening spent at La Scala in hearing Verdi's _Un Ballo in Maschera_. Am
I living in another world? Can Germany and the dear old Hof-Theatre be
but a day's trip away? When one has for months been going to the opera
at seven and returning at the discreet hour of nine-thirty it seems
nothing less than wild dissipation to find the final curtain falling in
the wee small hours o' the night. Milan and München may bear a certain
euphonic similarity, but they are really as unlike as black and white.
In the Munich opera house we are generally directed to our seats by
a languorous gesture of the hand and a pertinent glance towards the
desired row. Here, however, the usher seized our checks, muttered to
himself, shouted excitedly to a fellow-usher, tried to direct us and
several other people at once, urged us to hurry, and finally landed
us breathless in our places. There were yet five minutes before the
overture.
La Scala is an enormous opera house, and its stage stretches beneath one
like a great plain. To be sure, after a winter of Wagnerian harmonies,
Verdi's music sounded somewhat colorless, but oh! the language! I
cannot tell you what a peaceful, refreshing change it was to hear a soft
_Cielo!_ issue from the soprano's lips, instead of the _Ach, Gott!_ to
which we were accustomed; and to remark how easily the tenor floated
along on broad _ahs_ instead of struggling over a succession of
gutturals. Don't imagine that I sneer at German. It is a grand, strong
language, but for song there is nothing in the world like this melodious
tongue of the South.
We were surprised and pleased to meet in the lobby Mr. P----, a Harvard
man whom I had met at college. He is studying voice in Milan, and told
me not a little about student life here. It seems that it is the height
of a singer's ambition to make his début at La Scala which Toscanini,
the conductor, rules with a rod of iron. The students receive no
advantages in the way of tickets, as our _Kategorie-Karten_ afford us in
Munich. He also told me that opera monopolizes the field of music.
"It is true that Toscanini gives a series of orchestral concerts after
the season, but they are, as a rule, unsuccessful," he said. "We have
small chance to study purely orchestral music."
"Are many Wagner operas produced here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes, Wagner is growing in favor, but the Italians love best their
own school."
The tenor, Zenatello, who sang Ricardo, seemed to be a great favorite.
The audience applauded and cheered him repeatedly. Mr. P---- says he
has been on the stage but a short time. There was one singer of whom the
people decidedly disapproved, to judge by the hissing which greeted him
every time he made his appearance. I really pitied him, although he did
sing atrociously.
The curtain fell at twelve o'clock. To our surprise a ballet, or rather
a pantomime followed. It was a most elaborate production lasting an
hour, but had nothing to do with what went before, and to tell the truth
I was too sleepy to enjoy it much. And now good night. We are off for
the lakes on Monday.
X
MUNICH, _May 11_.
_Cecilia dear_:--
We have seen the lakes and are back in the _pension_ once more. Although
I intended to send you a line from there we have been so constantly on
the go that letter-writing has been an impossibility. Of course we
"did" Milan thoroughly. On Easter morning we heard mass at the
glorious cathedral. The music, rendered by two boy choirs with organ
accompaniment, was very fine. After it was over we climbed up on the
roof. As I stood there among the myriads of fairy-like spires, carved
columns and slender pinnacles, I realized for the first time the meaning
of that oft-quoted phrase, "architecture is frozen music." It was as
though a whole orchestra were playing _con sordini_.
We had a delightful trip to Pallanza, rowing across to Isola Bella,
where Napoleon slept before the battle of Marengo, and on to Menaggio
and mountain-girt Lugano; but of all the places I saw Bellagio remains
in my memory as the most charming. I think _der liebe Gott_ must have
said to Himself, "Here I will make the loveliest spot in the world." I
cannot begin to describe it to you, but will try to tell you about it
when I return.
At our first dinner after we came back we were surprised to find Frau
von Waldfel in her old place. We had expected she would remain much
longer in Berlin. Fräulein's chair was, however, empty, and I learned
that she was ill.
"She is overtired," explained her aunt; "but if she does not improve by
to-morrow I shall call a physician."
During the entire meal she spoke much more gently than is her wont, and
did not engage in a single discussion about her food. I really think she
is anxious concerning Fräulein's health.
The time seems frightfully short as I look ahead and realize that in two
months it will all be over. I wish, indeed, that the days were longer. I
am working very hard just now; there is so much to accomplish by the
end of June! After all, life is a grand opportunity to develop the
possibilities in a person, and although the greater part of us who want
to do something worth while will never attain our goal, I believe we are
all the broader and better for the struggle. Heigho! The little
brown bird on the tree outside squints up his eyes and says in very
translatable German bird-talk, "Cease philosophizing, American stranger,
and set to work on the thing which lies nearest." Therefore, good-by for
the present, and a fresh attack on my fugue!
_Tuesday evening._
The doctor came to see Fräulein Hartmann last week and has been here
daily since. This morning he pronounced her illness pneumonia. Every
one in the house from Georg and Gretchen to the Poet himself feels very
anxious about her. A quiet, black-gowned sister of charity has been
installed as nurse, and the farther end of the floor below transformed
into a miniature hospital. Lieutenant Blum daily inquires after the
patient. If he does not come himself he sends his orderly.
Yesterday as I chanced to look out of the window I noticed a young man
seated on a bench under the trees looking intently up at the house.
His glance seemed to be directed towards Fräulein Hartmann's window.
A half-hour later I saw him walk slowly, thoughtfully away. It was
the same man who was in the arbor at the carnival ball--and must be
Heinrich. You may be sure that I shall keep you informed about the
Fräulein, for she is very much in my thoughts at present.
The one break in my regular routine of study this week has been a visit
to the clubhouse, or _Corpshaus_, as they say here, of the Suevia.
_Mütterchen_ and I were the guests of Herr Martens, who belongs to this
student club. To my mind the most interesting thing about the house is
that it was originally built by Ludwig II. for Richard Wagner.
We entered by a side door which led into a hall. On the right was a
counter and above it, around it and beneath it, hung hundreds of beer
steins decorated with the arms of the corps. On the left was a high rack
full of pipes, beneath which were rows of short jackets trimmed with
black, blue and white, the club colors. On a shelf was a pile of round
black caps with bands of blue and white.
We passed through the low door into the hall or _Kneipe_. It is a
handsome room decorated with flags, shields and foils. The furniture
is dark and very richly carved. At the farther end the ceiling is
dome-shaped and frescoed with the arms of the corps. Here the students
meet evenings. The other rooms of the house are far less elaborate, and
almost all contain pictures of students duelling, for in order to enter
this exclusive club one must first of all be a good fighter.
The bowling-alley was a failure as a bowling-alley, but as a picture
gallery it was a great success. Around the room ran a double row of
students' photographs, about five inches in height. There were all sorts
of students and they never failed to have the scarred side of their
faces towards the camera. Each wore the cap of their corps.
"Now I must take you into the main house. This is only the ell, you
know," said our guide.
"And--and do you fight there?" asked _Mütterchen_ hesitatingly. I think
she had visions of walking in on a crowd of masked creatures fiercely
plunging at one another with swords.