_To Miss Bella Seymour_
BALAK, _November 5_.
DEAR DARLING OLD BELLA,--How I wish you were with me. I miss
you almost as much as mamma and the girls. I've had such a homesickness
that even the elegant concerts, the gay city and the novelty of this out
of the way foreign place do not compensate, for Why, oh _why_, doesn't
Herr Klug live in Berlin or Paris, or even Vienna? Think, after you
leave Vienna you must travel six hours by boat and three by rail before
you reach Balak, but what a city, what curious houses, and what an opera
house!
Let me first tell you of my experiences with Herr Klug. I met the
Ransoms; you remember those queer Michigan avenue people. They are here
with their mother--snuffy Mother Ransom we used to call her--and are
both studying with Herr Klug. I met them on the Ringstrasse--the
principal avenue here--and they looked so dissatisfied when they saw me.
Ada, the short, thin one, you know--well, she lowered her parasol--say,
the weather is awful hot--and, honest, I believed she wasn't going to
speak to me. But Lizzie is the nice one, and she fairly ate me up. They
raved about Herr Klug. He is so nice, so gentle, and plays so
wonderfully! Mrs. Ransom was a trifle cool--she and ma never did get
along, you remember that fight about free lager for indigent Germans in
sultry weather?--well, she and ma quarrelled over the meaning of the
word "indigent," and Mrs. R. said that she was indigent at ma's
ignorance; then ma burst into a fit of laughter. I heard her--it was a
real mean laugh, Bella, and--but I must tell you about this place. Dear,
I'm quite out of breath!
Well, the Ransoms took me off to lunch and it was real nice at their
boarding house; they call it the Hôtel Serbe, or some such name, and I
almost regretted that I went to the miserable rooms I'm in, but I have
to be economical, and as I intend practising all day and sleeping all
night it doesn't matter much where I am. I forgot to tell you what we
had for lunch, funny dishes, sour and full of red pepper. I'll tell you
all about it in my next letter. I'm so full of Herr Klug that I can't
sit still. He is a grand man, Bella, only very old, and very small, and
very nervous, and very cross. He didn't say much to me and I held my
tongue, for they say he is so nervous that he is almost crazy, besides,
he hates American pupils. When I went into the big lesson room it was
empty, and I had a good chance to look at all the pictures on the wall.
There were Bach, Beethoven and Herr Klug at every age. There must have
been at least thirty portraits. He was homely in every one, and wore his
hair long, and has such a high, noble forehead. You know Chicago men
have such low foreheads. I love high foreheads. They are so _destingué_
(is that spelt right?) and it means such a _lot_ of brains. He was
photographed with Liszt and with Chopin. I think it was Chopin,
and--just then he came in. He walked very slowly and his shoulders were
stooped. Oh, Bella, he has such a venerable look, so saintly! Well, he
stood in the doorway and his eyeglasses fairly stared into me, he has
such piercing gaze. I was scared out of my seven senses and stood stock
still.
"_Nu was!_" he cried out; "where do you come from?" His English was
maddening, Bella, just maddening, but I understood him, and with my
heart in my boots I said:
"Chicago, Herr Klug." He snorted.
"Chicago. I hate Chicago, I hate Americans! There's only one city in
America--that is San Francisco. I was never there, but I like it because
I never had a pupil from that city; that's why I like it, _hein_!" He
laughed, Bella, and coughed himself into a strangling fit over his
joke--he thought it was a joke--and then he sharply cried out:
"You may kiss me, and play for me." I was too frightened to reply, so I
went up to him and didn't like him. He smelt of cigarettes and liquor,
but I kissed him on the forehead, and he gave me a queer look and pushed
me to the piano. Well, I was flabbergasted.
"Play," he said, as harsh as could be, and I dashed off the Military
Polonaise of Chopin. He walked about the whole time humming out loud,
and never paid any attention to me any more than if I hadn't been
playing. When I got to the trio I stuck, and he burst out laughing, so I
stopped short.
"Aha! you girls and your teachers, how you, all swindle yourselves. You
have no talent, no touch, nothing, nothing!"--his voice was like a
screaming whistle--"and yet you cheat yourselves and run to Europe to be
artists in a year, aha!" "Shall I go on?" I asked. I was getting mad.
"No, I've heard enough. Come to the class every Monday and Thursday
morning at ten--mind you, ten sharp--and in the meantime study this
piece of mine, 'The Five Blackbirds,' for the black keys, and take the
first book of my 'Indispensable Studies for Stupid American Girls.'" He
laughed again.
"You pay now for the music. I make no discount, for I print it myself.
Your lessons you pay for one by one. Please put the money--twenty
marks--on the mantelpiece when you are through playing, but don't tell
me. I'm too nervous. And now good-day; practise ten hours every day.
You may kiss me good-by. No? Well, next time. I hate American girls when
they play; but I like to kiss them, for they are very pretty. Wait: I
will introduce you to my wife." He rang a bell and barked something at a
servant, and she returned followed by a nice-looking German lady, quite
young. I was surprised. "My wife." We bowed and then I left.
Funny people, these foreigners. I take my lesson day after to-morrow and
I must hurry home to my Blackbirds. Good-by, dear Bella, and tell the
girls to write. You answer this soon and I'll write after lesson on
Monday. Good-by, Bella. Don't show my ma this letter, and, Bella--say
nothing to nobody about the kisses. I didn't like--now if it had
been--you know--oh, dear. I hate the piano. Good-by at last, Bella, and
oh, Bella, will you send me the address of Schaefer, Schloss &
Cantwell's? I want to order some writing paper. Good-by.
Your devoted IRENE.
P.S.--Any kind of Irish linen paper will do _without_ any monogram.