Part 10

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.

Herr Martens laughed in hearty German fashion. "There is a small room 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

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.