up six flights in a house not far away," he said. "We hire it especially
for fighting. You know that duelling of any sort is strictly prohibited
by the police. But if one isn't a good fighter he cannot join the corps,
so of course we have to have a place where we can fight secretly."
I glanced at his deeply scarred cheek and remarked that I had seen
several students on the Parada Sunday wearing tightly fitting black
skull-caps.
"That is because they have head injuries," he explained. Then he added
proudly, "I have forty-two scars."
_Mütterchen_ gasped. I endeavored to look properly impressed.
"But what _do_ you find to fight about in these peaceful times?" I
asked, after what I considered to be a reverential pause.
"Oh, anything serves as a pretext," he answered, quite frankly. "The
students are always quarrelling over something or other. It's rather
good fun to settle it by swords."
"And at home they call football brutal," murmured _Mütterchen_ in my
ear.
Making our way through reading-rooms, lounging-rooms and card-rooms, we
came out on a delightful roof-garden.
"We sit out dances here when we have a ball," said Herr Martens.
_Mütterchen_ and I both waxed enthusiastic, not only over the garden,
but over the whole house, which compares very favorably with our
handsomest college clubhouses in America. The only incongruous feature
was the air-tight stove in every room. This fact brings forcibly to mind
that in spite of everything else Germany is years and years behind us in
comforts and conveniences.
I have been so busy lately that I have studied evenings too, so have
heard but one opera since my return. That was "Louise," by the French
composer Charpentier. It is distinctly modern and extremely interesting.
Some of the scenes belong to the real _opéra comique_. There is one laid
in a dressmaker's establishment. The curtain rises on a room full of
girls sewing and gossiping. Suddenly a band is heard and the tramp of
feet. You would have laughed to see the girls jump up on the tables and
crane their necks to get a view of the soldiers out of the window! The
finale is very effective and the whole thing has the merit of being
essentially realistic. There is no coloratura soprano carolling gayly
in the neighborhood of high C about her broken heart. There is no basso
profundo singing a drinking song, and at the end descending diatonically
till he lands on low D, solemnly assuring us there is nothing like
[Illustration: Wi-i-ine, di-vine. (music)]
nor any of the other traditional absurdities which we accept as a matter
of course. On the other hand, it seems to me that realism carried to the
_n_th degree is quite as ridiculous. In the fourth scene of the first
act, Louise (charmingly sung by Morena) with her father and mother sit
around a table in the centre of the stage for fully five minutes without
uttering a syllable. What do you think they are doing? _Eating soup!_
Meanwhile the orchestra is playing beautiful music, elaborating a
theme which I called _motif du potage_. To what are we coming
next?
Our table is not so deserted as you might imagine, in spite of the
absence of Frau von Waldfel and her niece, for Fräulein Werner, the
novelist, has come to stay some weeks at the _pension_. She is an
odd-looking woman with shrewd brown eyes, red cheeks and very black
hair. She talks a great deal and is decidedly interesting. You know that
almost all her novels have been translated into English and are much
read in America. She is, therefore, greatly interested in our country
and asks many questions about it, although she declares that her fear of
the sea will prevent her from ever setting foot on our shores.
Between you and me, I have generally found that people who "do things"
are horrible bores socially. Nevertheless they have a certain charm, and
that reminds me to tell you that I am to meet the opera singer Morena on
Friday. Madame A---- is to give an informal tea for her and has asked
me to come. You can fancy how delighted I am, for I can never forget her
well-nigh perfect rendering of Leonora in _Fidelio_ and her Elizabeth in
_Tannhäuser_.
_Sunday._
Such an enjoyable time as we had at Madame A----'s tea on Friday. We
were entertained in the cosiest of roof-gardens, high up above the noise
of the city. Morena did not arrive till late, but Bürger, one of the
leading tenors at the opera house, was there with his pretty young
bride. He it was who sang Siegmund in _Die Walküre_. At half-past five
came the sound of laughter on the stairs, the sharp barking of a dog,
and--enter Morena, dressed in a white gown with a big black picture hat.
"What a glorious creature!" I said to myself. I have told you that
she is very tall and handsome, with beautiful dark eyes. Her manner is
utterly unaffected and charming. In five minutes she was laughing and
chattering with us all, and consuming numerous chocolate cakes with all
the enthusiasm of a child. Later it was my good fortune to have a talk
with her all by myself in the course of which she asked many questions
about America. She intends crossing within a short time, for it seems
that Conried has heard her sing and wants to introduce her to New York
audiences.
After she had gone--she stayed only half an hour--we all went into the
music-room and heard a young American singer who has taken the stage
name of de Zara[3] sing several selections from the rôles of Carmen
and Santuzza. It was a great treat to hear her, for she has a voice of
unusual promise. I wish you could have been with us! As a souvenir
you shall see Morena's photograph which I shall bring back, with her
autograph across the corner.
[3] She died in Munich the following year.
These are such busy days! We are finishing up the work at the school and
rehearsing Berlioz's "Childhood of Christ" for the closing concert. This
afternoon at my piano hour the little Boer girl didn't come, so I had
double my usual time for reading at sight. Fräulein Fischer and I played
the Saint-Saëns variations on a theme of Beethoven's for two pianos. Do
you know it? I think it great, especially the big fugue at the end.
We have made two out-of-town trips lately, one to Starnberger-See and
the other to the Isar-Thal. But it is time for me to go to my lesson
now, so I shall have to save telling you about them till another time.
Believe me, dearest of friends,
As ever and always,--
M.
Fräulein Hartmann is about the same, and the doctor assures us that
there is no immediate danger.
XI
_June 28._
Confusion reigned on the floor below between the hours of four and five
to-day--a somewhat muffled confusion, to be sure, for the proximity of
the sick-room forbade any violent outburst, but none the less confusion
of a most exciting character. As I came in from my composition lesson I
found maids running this way and that, their arms full of clothing
and packages. Georg and an unknown _Dienstmann_ were carrying a trunk
downstairs; Frau von Waldfel was kneeling before a hamper, giving orders
through the open door of her room, while the Poet's Wife, a hat-box in
one hand and a parrot cage in the other, was endeavoring to preserve
order in the midst of chaos. She came out to speak to me as I halted on
the landing.
"Frau von Waldfel has just received a telegram demanding her
immediate presence in Budapest," she explained. "Some serious business
complications have arisen, and she is hurrying to catch the six o'clock
train to-night. Fräulein knows nothing of this and we do not dare excite
her. Frau von Waldfel is greatly distressed at the thought of leaving
her, and so I have offered to take charge of the sick-room during her
absence."
"That is so like you," I said, impulsively. "I'll just leave my music
books upstairs and come directly back, for perhaps I can be of some
help."
When I returned Frau von Waldfel was standing in the hall, dressed for
the journey. She looked anxious and preoccupied as she shook hands in
a perfunctory manner and counted her bag, her bundle, her umbrellas and
her parrot cage three times before allowing the servants to carry them
down to the droschky waiting below. Then occurred something which makes
me regard her in a far more kindly light than I have been wont to do.
She took the hands of the Poet's Wife in both her own.
"What should I have done without you!" she said. I never dreamed that
her voice could be so gentle. "Take care of the child and let me know
daily how she is. Years ago I lost a little one of my own--the only
child I ever had--and I couldn't bear to lose Minna too. Here, Georg,"
with a sudden change to her old peremptory manner, "take this bag down."
She turned to descend the stairs but there were tears, actually tears
in her eyes, which softened their beady hardness and made them almost
beautiful.
"Poor woman!" said the Poet's Wife softly, as we heard the rattle of
departing wheels.
Then she hurried off to prepare the Fräulein's gruel, and I came up to
write you. Really I do not know whom to pity most, Frau von Waldfel, the
dear Fräulein, or Heinrich, who is eating his heart out from day to day.
Now to tell you of some of the things I have been doing lately. First,
I heard _Die Meistersinger_ for the second time. If one were to see a
hundred productions of this wonderful work I am sure he would discover
new beauties on the hundred and first hearing! Is there anything more
lovely than the quintette? Is there anything more marvellously worked
out than that street scene? Once I was so impressed by the complexity of
the score that I actually forgot to listen and simply sat and wondered
at the genius of Wagner. Feinhals was the Hans Sach, Fräulein Koboth,
Eva, and Geis, Beckmesser. The opera began at six and was not over till
after eleven, with pauses of fifteen minutes each between the acts. You
would have laughed to see the bored expressions of two Americans who sat
next us. They declared to each other, thinking doubtless that there was
no one to understand them, that they never were so glad in their lives
the final curtain fell. Why on earth didn't they rise and go out? Not
two minutes later I saw them again in the _Garderobe_, and overheard the
gentleman say to another American whom he had met, "_Delightful_, was it
not?" while his wife joined in with, "Isn't Wagner simply delicious?" O
departed gods of Olympus, is there anything more disheartening than this
Fashionable Insincerity?
If my remarks about Fashionable Insincerity and Modern Indifference
(for they are formidable enough to be capitalized) would seem to show a
disbelief in the existence of that simple faith which the poet assures
us is better than a long line of ancestors, believe me, appearances
are misleading, for even if I had had a tendency in that direction the
Corpus Christi celebrations would have banished it on the spot. These
will always remain to me beautiful and sacred, and as an indisputable
proof that Simplicity and Sincerity do not belong solely to a distant
past.
On Corpus Christi morning we were called at six o'clock in order not to
miss the great procession which for hundreds of years has annually on
this day wended its way through the streets of the city. As we
walked towards Max-Joseph-Platz we found everywhere the most charming
decorations. Instead of conventional banners and bunting, rows of fresh
green birch trees about six feet high were fastened against the houses
as if growing up from the sidewalk. From the window ledges hung square
pieces of cloth of red and blue. On turning into Theatiner-strasse what
was our surprise to find a great altar erected in the very centre of
the street. It was high and triangular in form, outlined by these same
delicate birch trees. Yellow draperies of satin concealed the wooden
framework itself. In the centre was a great crucifix, and the sight of
this sacred symbol in the midst of a busy thoroughfare was startlingly
impressive. Through the middle of the street, where the procession was
to pass, grass had been strewn. But just as we reached the café the
rain began to fall in torrents. This was the end of it for that day.
The altar was hastily demolished, carts were driven up to carry away the
draperies, and people with disappointed faces came crowding under cover.
We learned that the procession must be postponed till Sunday, although
the Prince Regent and the golden carriages--such an important feature of
the occasion--would not appear.
Somewhat crestfallen, we returned to the _pension_. But by Sunday our
interest had again awakened. This time it was not till eight o'clock
that we stationed ourselves on a balcony overlooking the street, from
which point we had an excellent view of the procession below. First
came a number of priests in splendid robes, bearing a holy banner. Then
followed a double row of little girls on each side of the street. Some
of them could not have been over three years old. They were all dressed
in white, with white wreaths on their heads, and carried bouquets of
vari-colored blossoms. Between the two double rows were four little tots
bearing the image of the Virgin. You have no idea what a lovely picture
they made. Then came a brass band with a choir of bareheaded boys and
students singing hymns. Behind were more priests with banners; a body of
young girls in white, carrying unlighted tapers and chanting prayers in
unison; sisters of charity, schoolgirls, then another band and a choir
of older men, singing. Just below the house was one of these altars
which I have described, built on the sidewalk against the side of a
building. When the procession stopped for a few minutes a service was
held here, several priests stepping out from their places in line to
officiate. Those who were near turned towards the altar and followed
the rites, while the others kept on with their praying and singing with
intense devoutness and earnestness.
I wish I might describe to you how solemn and impressive it was--the
voices of the chanting priests; the murmur of prayers rising from
hundreds of lips; the distant music of those grand old chorals; the
incense, floating up in thin clouds from the swinging censers below;
above all the absolute simplicity and devotion of the people. My eyes
filled with tears. Skepticism, doubt, hypocrisy, seemed to be merely
delusions of another world. Unconsciously the lines of the Persian poet
came to my mind, and I murmured softly to myself,
"He that tossed you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--_He_ knows--HE knows!"
The school year at the Conservatory closes with examinations for which
I am now preparing. Then as my last task Thuille desires that I write
an overture. (A _finale_ would seem more appropriate, wouldn't it?) My
second theme came in a moment, but I wrote fully a dozen first themes
before I found one which would answer my purpose. Now I am doing the
most interesting part of all--the scoring for orchestra. Of course this
is only for practice and I never expect to hear it played, but as
Mr. Chadwick used to say, "The only way to learn how to compose is to
compose," so good-by, while I go on with the development section.
XII
_July 10._
Good news at last about Fräulein Hartmann! The crisis is past and she is
much better. We all feel so relieved, especially the Poet's Wife, who is
beginning to show the strain of the past weeks. Frau von Waldfel writes
that her affairs are in a far worse condition than she anticipated. In
fact she appears to be greatly disturbed, which accounts for her having
written but twice since she went away. Lieutenant Blum called yesterday.
He has been here but once since Frau von Waldfel's departure. Doesn't
that strike you as rather extraordinary? I was in the room when he came,
and I could but notice how closely he questioned the Poet's Wife about
Frau von Waldfel's last letter. Indeed he seemed much more interested
in her business troubles than in the condition of his _fiancée_. Is it
possible that it is only her money that he is after? To tell the truth
the thought has occurred to me before, but I never deemed it worthy of
consideration till now.
Every day the Fräulein receives beautiful blue flowers such as one finds
in the Isar-Thal if one looks carefully enough. The servants think they
are the gift of her betrothed, so do not gossip over his nonappearance,
but the Poet's Wife and I know better. We have not seen Heinrich daily
pacing to and fro in the park opposite without learning many things.
Do you know, when I see him looking up with yearning eyes at Fräulein's
window, I always think of the poet in Bernard Shaw's "Candida." The
expression of Heinrich's face says as plainly as words, "We hold our
tongues. Does that stop the cry of the heart?--for it does cry: doesn't
it? It must, if you have a heart."
* * * * *
Yesterday and to-day examinations were held at the Conservatory. At
eight o'clock all the professors appeared in the dignity of frock coats
and black ties. They shut themselves up in a large room on the top
floor, and one by one the pupils were called in to be examined before
them. The only examination which was really trying was that in the
history of music. Had it been a written one I should have approached it
with only the usual nervousness, but an oral test is quite a different
thing when one is a foreigner. All the pupils filed in together and sat
in a single row on the platform. Before us was the formidable mass
of professors with folded arms. Just in front of them was Stavenhagen
behind a table and two other men who wrote down what we said. Before
the director was a box full of paper slips on which were written the
questions. When a pupil's name was called, he went to the box, drew
three questions, and declaimed his answers to the joint audience of
pupils and teachers. As I have told you, whenever I am nervous my German
becomes affected in a peculiar fashion. I find myself forgetting words
with remarkable rapidity and I insist on employing the English order of
expression, which, to a Münchener, is nothing less than a mild form of
madness. However, I managed to get through by not allowing the amused
faces of the onlookers to trouble me, and although I discovered
afterwards that I had called "The Damnation of Faust" an oratorio and
had mixed my genders in the most ludicrous fashion, I was successfully
"passed."
Now only the concert remains before the school closes for the summer.
Then we are to take our final trip before sailing for home. Our
itinerary has been specially planned to include places of musical
interest and we are to go to Mozart's birthplace, Salzburg; Leipsic,
crowded with memories of Bach and Wagner; Vienna where Beethoven,
Schubert, and Brahms lie buried; Berlin, Dresden, and Bremen. We may run
down to Budapest, since we are so near, and thus have an opportunity to
hear a _bona fide_ Hungarian orchestra. Isn't that fine, and doesn't it
make you long to be with us?
Now no more for the present, my dear, as I want my last lesson for
Thuille to be a good one, and my orchestration work is unfinished.
_July 17._
The blow has fallen! To-day the Fräulein received a letter from Frau
von Waldfel, saying that she has lost everything, even her personal
property, through an unwise investment. The poor woman is in great
distress of mind with lawyers, creditors, and what not, but these lines
at the end of her letter impressed me more strongly than all the rest:
"I have just heard from Lieutenant Blum. He writes that he releases you
from your betrothal, 'realizing that in this present trouble Fräulein
Hartmann can have no heart for festivities.' The sly fellow has had
private information of my affairs here, and doubtless learned that if I
scrape together all I have there will be just enough for your dowry and
no more. Evidently he had hopes of living on my income after you both
were married. It seems as though my present ill-fortune were enough
without enduring this fresh disappointment."
My cheeks burned with indignation as I read. "The English employ a word
which just suits this officer of the German army, and that is _cad_!"
said I, decisively.
Fräulein Hartmann looked at the blue flowers in her lap and
smiled gently. There was a light in her eyes--a light indefinably
beautiful--that I had never seen there before.
"Poor Auntie deserves all the sympathy you can give her," she said,
"but as for myself--well, I haven't been as happy for months. I feel as
though a great weight had been lifted from my heart. After all, _kleine
Amerikanerin_," she continued naïvely, "don't you think that people are
happier without a lot of money to look after? Although six months ago
the thought of all the delightful things money could buy----"
"Including a lieutenant?" I interrupted, involuntarily.
"Yes, including a lieutenant," she smilingly went on, "dazzled me, and
made me a bit contemptuous of my Mannheim surroundings, now I really
believe that our little home there is the loveliest, dearest spot in the
whole world."
"With Heinrich next door," I added.
"Perhaps nearer than next door," said the Poet's Wife, caressing the
girl's blushing cheek, "at least if we are to believe what he told us
this morning."
"Dear," said the Fräulein, taking my hand in hers and speaking in those
sweet, earnest tones which made her so winning, "did you think me very
wicked and deceitful that night at the carnival ball? It has troubled me
so much--the thought that you must despise me----"
"I won't allow you to say that," I interposed hastily.
"Yes, it always is a despicable thing to do--to deceive," she continued;
"but I did so want to talk to Heinrich, and explain to him how things
were. He wrote me a pitiful letter, begging to see me just once, and
I was so unhappy that I finally devised that meeting. Now that we
have been through all this I feel sure that my parents will have no
objections to our marrying. They have always been fond of Heinrich. It
was only the thought of my brilliant match that made them ignore, as it
were, his very existence."
"Just as soon as she is well enough to travel I am going to take her
home," said the Poet's Wife to me. "Heinrich is waiting here in Munich
to go down with us. He is doing very well, by the bye, in his law work."
"Yes, indeed," said Fräulein eagerly, "and sometimes next year
when--when we are settled--you will come down and visit us--promise you
will, _meine Amerikanerin_!"
I promised, and lingered a few moments longer to learn more of her
plans. Then the Poet's Wife insisted that she had had excitement enough
for one day, and we both left her leaning back in her chair and, with
an expression of unutterable happiness, gazing dreamily out over the
swaying tree-tops of the Platz.
At three o'clock I was at Ainmüller-strasse for my last lesson with Herr
Professor. Did I tell you that some weeks ago I made a translation
into English of the _Rosenlied_ (Rose-song) by Anna Ritter? Thuille has
written a three-part song for women's voices to these charming words and
asked me if I would put them into English for him. To-day he gave me
the first published copy and wrote across the bottom the following
inscription: "_Meiner lieben Schülerin; zur freundlichen Erinnerung._
L. Thuille." (To my dear pupil in friendly remembrance. L. Thuille.)
I had brought as my lesson the overture for orchestra on which I have
been spending considerable time lately, and a little song which occurred
to me the other day at Tutzing. Nothing pleases Thuille so much as
a completed piece of work, so I had worked very hard to finish the
overture in time; in fact, even sitting up late at night, which is
against all rules. He was pleased with the result and declared the song
to be the best thing of its kind that I have done this year, which made
me very happy. I did not mind that my eyes were tired.
"Take a good rest, Fräulein," he said. "You must surely come back to us
all next year. And here is a souvenir, so that you will not forget your
old teacher when you are in far-away America."
The souvenir proved to be a photograph of himself, taken from the large
oil painting which hangs in the salon. Beneath it he had written his
name with some bars of music from _Gugeline_.
I thanked him repeatedly as we shook hands. Then I went down stairs with
a vague regret in my heart as I realized that the year's work was over.