For a month Munich has been preparing for Christmas. The shop windows
have had a holiday look all December. I see one every day in which are
displayed all the varieties of fruits, vegetables, and confectionery
possible to be desired for a feast, done in wax,--a most dismal
exhibition, and calculated to make the adjoining window, which has a
little fountain and some green plants waving amidst enormous pendent
sausages and pigs' heads and various disagreeable hashes of pressed
meat, positively enticing. And yet there are some vegetables here that I
should prefer to have in wax,--for instance, sauerkraut. The toy windows
are worthy of study, and next to them the bakers'. A favorite toy of the
season is a little crib, with the Holy Child, in sugar or wax, lying
in it in the most uncomfortable attitude. Babies here are strapped
upon pillows, or between pillows, and so tied up and wound up that they
cannot move a muscle, except, perhaps, the tongue; and so, exactly like
little mummies, they are carried about the street by the nurses,--poor
little things, packed away so, even in the heat of summer, their little
faces looking out of the down in a most pitiful fashion. The popular toy
is a representation, in sugar or wax, of this period of life. Generally
the toy represents twins, so swathed and bound; and, not infrequently,
the bold conception of the artist carries the point of the humor so
far as to introduce triplets, thus sporting with the most dreadful
possibilities of life.
The German bakers are very ingenious; and if they could be convinced of
this great error, that because things are good separately, they must
be good in combination, the produce of their ovens would be much more
eatable. As it is, they make delicious cake, and of endless variety; but
they also offer us conglomerate formations that may have a scientific
value, but are utterly useless to a stomach not trained in Germany.
Of this sort, for the most part, is the famous Lebkuchen, a sort of
gingerbread manufactured in Nurnberg, and sent all over Germany: “age
does not [seem to] impair, nor custom stale its infinite variety.” It is
very different from our simple cake of that name, although it is usually
baked in flat cards. It may contain nuts or fruit, and is spoiled by
a flavor of conflicting spices. I should think it might be sold by the
cord, it is piled up in such quantities; and as it grows old and is much
handled, it acquires that brown, not to say dirty, familiar look, which
may, for aught I know, be one of its chief recommendations. The cake,
however, which prevails at this season of the year comes from the
Tyrol; and as the holidays approach, it is literally piled up on the
fruit-stands. It is called Klatzenbrod, and is not a bread at all, but
and amalgamation of fruits and spices. It is made up into small round or
oblong forms; and the top is ornamented in various patterns, with split
almond meats. The color is a faded black, as if it had been left for
some time in a country store; and the weight is just about that of
pig-iron. I had formed a strong desire, mingled with dread, to taste
it, which I was not likely to gratify,--one gets so tired of such
experiments after a time--when a friend sent us a ball of it. There was
no occasion to call in Professor Liebig to analyze the substance: it
is a plain case. The black mass contains, cut up and pressed together,
figs, citron, oranges, raisins, dates, various kinds of nuts, cinnamon,
nutmeg, cloves, and I know not what other spices, together with
the inevitable anise and caraway seeds. It would make an excellent
cannon-ball, and would be specially fatal if it hit an enemy in the
stomach. These seeds invade all dishes. The cooks seem possessed of
one of the rules of whist,--in case of doubt, play a trump: in case of
doubt, they always put in anise seed. It is sprinkled profusely in the
blackest rye bread, it gets into all the vegetables, and even into the
holiday cakes.
The extensive Maximilian Platz has suddenly grown up into booths and
shanties, and looks very much like a temporary Western village.
There are shops for the sale of Christmas articles, toys, cakes, and
gimcracks; and there are, besides, places of amusement, if one of the
sorry menageries of sick beasts with their hair half worn off can be so
classed. One portion of the platz is now a lively and picturesque forest
of evergreens, an extensive thicket of large and small trees, many of
them trimmed with colored and gilt strips of paper. I meet in every
street persons lugging home their little trees; for it must be a very
poor household that cannot have its Christmas tree, on which are hung
the scanty store of candy, nuts, and fruit, and the simple toys that the
needy people will pinch themselves otherwise to obtain.
At this season, usually, the churches get up some representations for
the children, the stable at Bethlehem, with the figures of the Virgin
and Child, the wise men, and the oxen standing by. At least, the
churches must be put in spick-and-span order. I confess that I like to
stray into these edifices, some of them gaudy enough when they are, so
to speak, off duty, when the choir is deserted, and there is only here
and there a solitary worshiper at his prayers; unless, indeed, as it
sometimes happens, when I fancy myself quite alone, I come by chance
upon a hundred people, in some remote corner before a side chapel,
where mass is going on, but so quietly that the sense of solitude in the
church is not disturbed. Sometimes, when the place is left entirely to
myself, and the servants who are putting it to rights and, as it were,
shifting the scenes, I get a glimpse of the reality of all the pomp
and parade of the services. At first I may be a little shocked with
the familiar manner in which the images and statues and the gilded
paraphernalia are treated, very different from the stately ceremony
of the morning, when the priests are at the altar, the choir is in the
organ-loft, and the people crowd nave and aisles. Then everything is
sanctified and inviolate. Now, as I loiter here, the old woman sweeps
and dusts about as if she were in an ordinary crockery store: the sacred
things are handled without gloves. And, lo! an unclerical servant,
in his shirt-sleeves, climbs up to the altar, and, taking down the
silver-gilded cherubs, holds them, head down, by one fat foot, while he
wipes them off with a damp cloth. To think of submitting a holy cherub
to the indignity of a damp cloth!
One could never say too much about the music here. I do not mean that of
the regimental bands, or the orchestras in every hall and beer-garden,
or that in the churches on Sundays, both orchestral and vocal. Nearly
every day, at half-past eleven, there is a parade by the Residenz, and
another on the Marian Platz; and at each the bands play for half an
hour. In the Loggie by the palace the music-stands can always be set
out, and they are used in the platz when it does not storm; and the
bands play choice overtures and selections from the operas in fine
style. The bands are always preceded and followed by a great crowd as
they march through the streets, people who seem to live only for this
half hour in the day, and whom no mud or snow can deter from keeping up
with the music. It is a little gleam of comfort in the day for the most
wearied portion of the community: I mean those who have nothing to do.
But the music of which I speak is that of the conservatoire and opera.
The Hof Theater, opera, and conservatoire are all under one royal
direction. The latter has been recently reorganized with a new director,
in accordance with the Wagner notions somewhat. The young king is
cracked about Wagner, and appears to care little for other music: he
brings out his operas at great expense, and it is the fashion here
to like Wagner whether he is understood or not. The opera of the
“Meister-Singer von Nurnberg,” which was brought out last summer,
occupied over five hours in the representation, which is unbearable to
the Germans, who go to the opera at six o'clock or half-past, and expect
to be at home before ten. His latest opera, which has not yet been
produced, is founded on the Niebelungen Lied, and will take three
evenings in the representation, which is almost as bad as a Chinese
play. The present director of the conservatoire and opera, a Prussian,
Herr von Bulow, is a friend of Wagner. There are formed here in town
two parties: the Wagner and the conservative, the new and the old,
the modern and classical; only the Wagnerites do not admit that their
admiration of Beethoven and the older composers is less than that of
the others, and so for this reason Bulow has given us more music of
Beethoven than of any other composer. One thing is certain, that the
royal orchestra is trained to a high state of perfection: its rendition
of the grand operas and its weekly concerts in the Odeon cannot easily
be surpassed. The singers are not equal to the orchestra, for Berlin and
Vienna offer greater inducements; but there are people here who regard
this orchestra as superlative. They say that the best orchestras in
the world are in Germany; that the best in Germany is in Munich;
and, therefore, you can see the inevitable deduction. We have another
parallel syllogism. The greatest pianist in the world is Liszt; but then
Herr Bulow is actually a better performer than Liszt; therefore you see
again to what you must come. At any rate, we are quite satisfied in this
provincial capital; and, if there is anywhere better music, we don't
know it. Bulow's orchestra is not very large,--there are less than
eighty pieces, but it is so handled and drilled, that when we hear it
give one of the symphonies of Beethoven or Mendelssohn, there is little
left to be desired. Bulow is a wonderful conductor, a little man, all
nerve and fire, and he seems to inspire every instrument. It is worth
something to see him lead an orchestra: his baton is magical; head,
arms, and the whole body are in motion; he knows every note of the
compositions; and the precision with which he evokes a solitary note out
of a distant instrument with a jerk of his rod, or brings a wail from
the concurring violins, like the moaning of a pine forest in winter,
with a sweep of his arm, is most masterly. About the platform of
the Odeon are the marble busts of the great composers; and while the
orchestra is giving some of Beethoven's masterpieces, I like to fix my
eyes on his serious and genius-full face, which seems cognizant of all
that is passing, and believe that he has a posthumous satisfaction in
the interpretation of his great thoughts.
The managers of the conservatoire also give vocal concerts, and there
are, besides, quartette soiries; so that there are few evenings without
some attraction. The opera alternates with the theater two or three
times a week. The singers are, perhaps, not known in Paris and London,
but some of them are not unworthy to be. There is the baritone, Herr
Kindermann, who now, at the age of sixty-five, has a superb voice and
manner, and has had few superiors in his time on the German stage. There
is Frau Dietz, at forty-five, the best of actresses, and with a still
fresh and lovely voice. There is Herr Nachbar, a tenor, who has a
future; Fraulein Stehle, a soprano, young and with an uncommon voice,
who enjoys a large salary, and was the favorite until another soprano,
the Malinger, came and turned the heads of king and opera habitues. The
resources of the Academy are, however, tolerably large; and the practice
of pensioning for life the singers enables them to keep always a
tolerable company. This habit of pensioning officials, as well as
musicians and poets, is very agreeable to the Germans. A gentleman the
other day, who expressed great surprise at the smallness of the salary
of our President, said, that, of course, Andrew Johnson would receive
a pension when he retired from office. I could not explain to him how
comical the idea was to me; but when I think of the American people
pensioning Andrew Johnson,--well, like the fictitious Yankee in “Mugby
Junction,” “I laff, I du.”
There is some fashion, in a fudgy, quaint way, here in Munich; but it is
not exhibited in dress for the opera. People go--and it is presumed the
music is the attraction in ordinary apparel. They save all their dress
parade for the concerts; and the hall of the Odeon is as brilliant as
provincial taste can make it in toilet. The ladies also go to operas and
concerts unattended by gentlemen, and are brought, and fetched away,
by their servants. There is a freedom and simplicity about this which
I quite like; and, besides, it leaves their husbands and brothers at
liberty to spend a congenial evening in the cafes, beer-gardens, and
clubs. But there is always a heavy fringe of young officers and gallants
both at opera and concert, standing in the outside passages. It is
cheaper to stand, and one can hear quite as well, and see more.