Munich, November 8.

Behold me recovering this morning from the effects of my first participation in German frivolity. The occasion was the Namens-Tag (name day) of the Baroness.

"You see to-day is mother's saint's day, the one for whom she was named," explained Karl, not very clearly, at dinner.

"Is it the custom to celebrate this instead of the birthday?" I inquired.

Karl looked at me with an expression of pity at my ignorance.

"We always have a fÊte on both days," he said, "with extra wine and a lot of grand things to eat."

"Yes, indeed," said the Baroness, beaming from her end of the table.

"Yes, indeed," echoed the Baron, beaming back on her and radiating his delight along the line of pensionnaires each side. The eyes of Herr Doktor twinkled as he looked across at me. I met his glance with a half smile. Neither of us meant to be unkind. France and America were merely united in their appreciation of the humorous. Frau von Waldfel raised her eyebrows disagreeably, and looked as though about to start a discussion. To mention food in the presence of that woman is like brandishing a red flag before a bull. Luckily Herr Doktor saw the signs of approaching storm, and with his usual diplomacy turned the trend of conversation, so that an argument was averted for this meal at least.

Is there anything more pitiable than a number of guests, hitherto unknown to one another, endeavoring to appear at ease as they wait the summons to dinner? We had thought to avoid this situation by not appearing till half after seven that evening, the hour set for the supper party. Imagine, then, our feelings, when fifteen minutes, a half hour, three quarters dragged by, and no vestige of life from the dining-room! Everything moves slowly in Germany, and the culinary department is no exception. The Baroness never seemed so much like a beneficent angel as when she opened the dining-room door and invited us to the table. And now a light shone through the clouds, for the stupid Count with whom I had been struggling to converse was whisked away to the other end of the table, and Lieutenant Linder, a young man of about seven and twenty, in the dark blue and scarlet uniform of Bavaria, took the place on my left.

Oh, these officers! They simply own Munich. When they stride along the street, the entire sidewalk is their undisputed possession. How their swords clank, how faultlessly their jackets fit, how their heavenward-pointing mustaches curl! A few of them are really handsome, but if not, it doesn't matter in the slightest. The resplendency of their uniforms would make one forgive almost anything. When I became accustomed to the atmosphere of conceit in which Lieutenant Linder was enveloped, I found him distinctly entertaining, and, better yet, he had a sense of humor. What with his helping me with my German, and my giving him a lesson in English, we managed to get on famously.

The table was profusely decorated with flowers, and there was a great deal to eat and more to drink. The idea in cooking seems to be to produce a color effect. For example, we had as one course well-browned sausage surrounded by a mass of bright red carrots. Next came the eternal veal, reposing in a vivid green sea of spinach. Do your Æsthetic sensibilities shrink at these materialistic descriptions? Remember I am in a materialistic land, amid a materialistic people. Truly the problem which continually confronts me is: how can a people who seem so lethargic, and who make no disguise of their love for the product of the soil and the grape, produce such marvellous, almost superhuman results in the fields of music and philosophy?

I might have meditated at some length on this question during the Namens-Tag supper, had not the Lieutenant kept up a rapid conversation, for we were at the table until half-past eleven. Not that we were eating all the time, but the waits between the courses were very long, and in the middle of the dinner we had a pause of twenty minutes—like an intermission at an assembly—when the Poet, with marked nervousness, read some original verses "To the Baroness on her Name-Day." The poor woman was even more embarrassed than he, and so moved, when at the close we all rose to drink her health, that two large tears ran down her fat cheeks.

"Hoch soll sie leben!" cried Herr Doktor, clinking his glass to mine. Every one had to touch his glass to every one else's or it was "no fair," and of course we all walked up to the Baroness and touched hers.

When the coffee had at last been served, we went into the salon carrying away with us a glass of Bowle, or punch, which is much milder than anything called by that name in America. In came a round little man who took his place at the piano, and dancing began.

Lieutenant Linder, with an extremely low bow, begged gnÄdiges FrÄulein to give him the honor of the first waltz. GnÄdiges FrÄulein consented, and off we started. The floor was excellent,—you know one finds hardwood floors everywhere here instead of carpets,—but oh, how fast these Germans dance! The Lieutenant swung me round and round in a small circle, prestissimo, until I begged him to stop, whereupon he looked very much surprised and asked me if I had heart trouble. I assured him that such was not the case, but that we were not accustomed in America to whirl about like tops.

Waltzes and old-fashioned polkas followed in rapid succession. I can't imagine how Herr Leutnant ever managed to do that one-two-three-hop, one-two-three-hop, without falling over his sword. At midnight everybody, including Frau von Waldfel, danced the FranÇaise, which is much like our Virginia Reel. You should have seen how the Baron and Baroness enjoyed it, and how astonishingly light they were on their feet! They fairly glowed with pleasure, and reminded me of Mr. and Mrs. Fessiwig at the Christmas party.

I had looked forward to this affair with considerable curiosity, not only because it was to be my first glimpse of German social life, but also because the Baroness had invited Lieutenant Blum, the fiancÉ of FrÄulein Hartmann. I must confess, however, that I was much disappointed in him. He is short and dark, with a heavy, black mustache which he constantly caresses with his fat little hands. Although I did not exchange a word with him the whole evening, except the formalities of an introduction, I could not shake off the impression that he was of much coarser fibre than his betrothed. However, he paid her the most devoted attention the entire evening, and is, apparently, very much in love.

At one o'clock MÜtterchen and I exchanged glances. I had a lesson at the Conservatory the next morning at nine. But at the first hint of our leaving, the Baroness looked so distressed and surprised that we were afraid we had been very rude and determined to do the proper thing. The proper thing in this instance meant staying up to dance till half-past four in the morning. Oh! how sleepy I was as I crept into bed and thanked my stars that the Namens-Tag fÊte was over.

Evening.

By this time I am beginning to feel quite like a native. My surroundings no longer seem strange. I am growing accustomed to five meals a day and the language sounds fairly rational. My work has settled into a regular routine. The entire mornings are devoted to study. In the afternoons come lessons. Twice a week I have a private lesson with Thuille. At the Conservatory I am studying singing with Frau Bianci and piano with FrÄulein Fischer, which makes four lessons more. The piano lessons are in a class with two other girls, and not as formidable as you might suppose, for I have explained to FrÄulein Fischer that I am only including piano to keep from forgetting what I already know, and that I need most of my time on my composition lessons with Thuille. She is very kind, and every two weeks we are to read duets together. This makes six lessons a week, and what with the score-reading class and the chorus, I see a busy winter before me. The singing and piano lessons are given in a large, imposing room. It contains two grand pianos and is furnished in red velvet. I could hardly reconcile this with my ideas of a Conservatory, but Frau Bianci explained that the building was originally used for something quite different. Just fancy—we address all the teachers by titles! "Herr Professor" falls now quite trippingly from my tongue, and even "Frau Professor," but "FrÄulein Professor" is a little too much for me as yet!

I will acknowledge that I felt rather strange at the first meeting of the score-reading class, when, on entering the room with the score of Haydn's symphonies under my arm, I encountered the astonished gaze of thirty pairs of masculine eyes. You could have heard a pin drop, the place was so still, as I walked by the different groups and took a seat near the window. Then a low whispering started among the students. Evidently I had created a sensation. A moment later the big door opened and Stavenhagen came in. Every one rose, or straightened himself up at once. With a nod which seemed to include us all, the director took his seat by the piano and the lesson began. Each one was called on to play a number of bars written in four different clefs, the old soprano, the tenor, the alto, and the bass—Stavenhagen selecting a new choral every time. It was not till near the end of the hour that he called my name. Just as I took my seat before the keyboard, feeling intensely nervous and fearing lest my fingers tremble visibly, I heard one of the men smother a laugh. That settled it! I was bound to do or die, and with a calmness quite unnatural I played the bars set before me without a mistake. Nobody laughed when I had finished, and now that the first shock is over, the students treat me with the utmost courtesy. Indeed, they seem to have accepted me as inevitable, although occasionally I catch one of them staring at me with an expression which says as plainly as words, "What on earth does a woman want of score reading?"

The chorus is well under way. To-day is Thursday, and while you have been singing with the faithful in the Cecilia Society I, too, have been at a rehearsal, only we call it a Probe here, and the atmosphere is somewhat different from that of Pilgrim Hall. The Oberster Chor (which means the upper chorus) met at five o'clock to-day. The room where we sit is on the top floor and at the end is an organ. I think the orchestra class generally practises here. The air is always frightfully close and hot, for there are about two hundred of us and never a window open. That is the German idea. What a splendid thing a Fresh Air Fund would be over here!

The piano against the wall is on a raised platform about which the chorus forms a half circle. Professor Becht, one of the organ teachers, presides. Such a time as he does have endeavoring to maintain order! But the moment we begin to sing—ah! that is a different matter. Each pupil becomes utterly absorbed in the notes before him, from the first measure to the last. Each sings as though he loves to sing; yes, better than that, as though he actually feels what he sings, which is more than can be said of many vocalists who have won both fame and fortune. There, you see, is another side of these complex Germans. The love of music is their birthright, the appreciation of it intuitive.

How I wish you might see some of this queer congregation! The masculine element ranges from small boys to bearded men. The girls and men are kept strictly separate, like the sheep and the goats. They enter and go out by different doors, for the building is divided in two distinct sections. The sanctity of each section is kept as inviolate as a Shaker settlement.

The front row of tenors in the chorus amuses me exceedingly. It consists of boys who wear their hair pompadour and yell outrageously. Did you ever notice the effect of a boy with pompadour hair opening his mouth very wide? It is truly startling. The basses form a curious vis-À-vis for these youthful aspirants. Their age is in the neighborhood of thirty. Obviously to be a bass singer requires both dignity and experience. Most of them think it also requires a full beard. Several of the pupils affect the artistic, or are dressed after the old masters, with long hair, brown corduroy velvet jackets, and flowing neckties. There is one I have named Rubenstein, he looks so much like the pictures of the great pianist. And the most interesting tenor-boy I call Beethoven. He wears a big white collar into which he sinks his chin, and with deep, earnest eyes under closely knit brows gazes gravely out on a frivolous world.

I felt very much like the proverbial stray cat as I entered the room at the first rehearsal, alone and silent in all that crowd of chattering German girls. Not knowing where to sit, I cast an anxious look around and caught the friendly glance of a girl in the second row. She beckoned to me somewhat shyly. "There is a place here, if you care for it," she said.

Overjoyed to hear my mother tongue, I gladly took the seat beside her, and we were soon chatting in the unconventional way known to strangers who meet on strange soil. I could not but notice with what a high-bred manner my new friend carried her head. Her hair, black and curling, is coiled in a low knot at the back of the whitest of necks, for she wears her blouses cut out a little without a collar, as is the strange and rather chilling fashion here. I was struck, too, by her jacket of black velvet, an odd school dress, but one which seems to suit her perfectly.

"You are English, are you not?" I questioned.

"Not at all," said she, her blue eyes snapping as much as blue eyes ever can snap. "I'm Irish. I come from County Cork."

"Oh!" I said, drawing a long breath, as visions of the representatives County Cork generally sends to America flashed through my mind.

"I'm taking piano as my Hauptsache with Krause," she went on. "You know Stavenhagen and Krause have a great many foreign pupils. By the bye," she continued, "I have a friend myself in the United States. I wonder if you know her—a Miss Curtis."

"Couldn't you tell me what city she lives in?" I suggested. "I know several people of that name."

"Then I'm sure you know her. How delightful!" she replied, radiant. (I made a mental note of the fact that jumping at conclusions is a trait not confined exclusively to American women.) "She comes from Los Angeles."

For the twentieth time since my arrival in Munich I explained the relative situation of Boston and San Francisco, and politely regretted that I could not know all the music students as far as the Pacific coast.

I was surprised at first to see how much deference is paid the professors here. Whenever one enters the room we all immediately rise and do not sit until he either goes out or, by a gracious wave of the hand, accords us permission to resume our places. In spite of my democratic birth, these marks of respect impressed me as extremely fitting. About every two weeks comes a "Vortragsabend," an evening devoted to a concert by the pupils. Stavenhagen has a large orchestra composed of the students, which he conducts himself. We are marked, too, by some occult system whereby our standing is never known unless we "flunk."

Last week I had a very pleasant chat with Professor Gluth. He is a well-known composer here, has written several operas, and teaches at the school. Margaret Ruthven Lang had been kind enough to give me a letter of introduction to him. He was her teacher when she was in Munich. I have been trying to see him for some time, but have always missed him. He is a splendid-looking man, very large, with white hair, and his manner is most cordial. He was delighted to hear of Miss Lang, and I was proud to tell him of her success in the musical world.

We have been to the opera twice since I wrote, once to hear Die Weisse Dame and the second to hear "Fidelio." I am afraid the report that the Prince Regent was to be there had more to do with our going than the desire to hear Die Weisse Dame itself, although it is a pretty opera in its way. The audience was very splendid and the royal box brilliantly lighted. The most expensive places are in the first balcony, and here we saw very fine costumes and jewels. At ten minutes past seven—the opera as a rule begins at seven—the orchestra struck up "God save the King," and the people rose en masse as the Prince, accompanied by the Crown Princess and several members of the royal family, entered the box. The Regent at once came to the front, and with one hand resting on the red velvet railing, bowed repeatedly to right and left. He is of medium height, with white hair and flowing white beard. His eyes are bright and kindly, and his bearing, while most dignified, is utterly without ostentation. It was an inspiring sight,—the five balconies, the floor, and the boxes all alive with a crowd of enthusiastic people, who, standing, faced this man who served them as king, and applauded till the house echoed with their cries of "Hoch! Hoch!"

Although "Fidelio," which we heard on Wednesday, presented no such gorgeous spectacle, how much more we enjoyed that evening! Morena sang the title rÔle, and I feel as though I never want to see any one else in the part. She is a tall, commanding woman of great beauty, and the masculine dress of Leonora suits her marvellously. Her voice is exquisite, fresh, and true, and her acting shows great intensity of power and feeling. Bosetti, who, you remember, sang so delightfully in HÄnsel und Gretel made a charming Marzelline. When the opera was over MÜtterchen and I rose to go, but to our surprise saw that the audience remained seated. As we took our places again, Zumpe raised his baton and the first measures of that divine Leonore overture number three rang out. I have never heard anything more impressive, coming as it did to form a finale to the opera itself. It seemed as though the people held their breath during the performance; not a rustle, not a movement distracted one from the glorious music of the orchestra. At the close the whole house broke into wild applause and cries for "Zumpe! Zumpe!"

I do think this German enthusiasm splendid. We talk about the stolidity of the Teutonic race, but I have never yet seen here an unresponsive audience. If they do not like a thing they remain silent. It is the exception to hear any hissing, although it now and then occurs. If they do like a thing they applaud, and applaud lustily. They resemble big, impulsive children, and the man who said "There is nothing for preserving the body like having no heart" would find no place among them. That cherished enormity known as Modern Indifference, by so many of us regarded as the outward sign of culture, is, in Germany, thank Heaven, conspicuous by its absence.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. I could hardly realize that you were feasting at home on turkey and cranberry sauce amid all the festivities of the season. The day here passed as usual with my morning of study and a lesson with Thuille in the afternoon. In the evening, that we might not forget what day it was, the American colony had a dinner and dance at one of the large hotels. I had no idea before that there were so many Americans in Munich. Colonel W—— said there must be about four hundred in all, and fully two hundred and fifty came to the dinner. The rooms were lavishly decorated with American flags and flowers, as were also the tables. And oh! how pleasant was the sound of English on every side. The consul's wife and the rector's wife received the guests under a red, white, and blue bower, and at seven o'clock we all went into the dining-room to the strains of the "Star Spangled Banner." The rector asked grace and then came the dinner. That, dear Cecy, I must confess, was but a farce when compared to the genuine creation, in spite of the American flag on the menu and the assurance that these were American turkeys especially imported for the occasion. The cranberry sauce, too, would, I believe, have been passed by unrecognized on the other side, but anything was preferable to dining on veal and beer on Thanksgiving Day. After the dinner came dancing—it had been thought best to have no speeches—and it did seem delightful to trip it in a sane way once more. The whole affair was decidedly successful, and made us realize that Thanksgiving was a real institution even if we were on German soil.

I must tell you how charming all the people here made my birthday, which came this week. In the morning MÜtterchen presented me with some lovely gifts tied with a red, white, and blue ribbon. To our surprise, about ten o'clock came a knock on my door, and in walked Karl bearing a huge cake on a tray, the Baron and Baroness following. They were all three beaming with delight, and each shook my hand a dozen times in their cordial way, wishing me all sorts of good things. The cake had been ordered and made at the pastry cook's especially for me. It was round and bore across the top, in letters of marvellous white frosting script, "Herzlichen Gruss" (Hearty Greeting).

"That must have the place of honor," I cried, much moved by their friendliness, as I swept the books off the table. "It is truly a wonderful cake."

Hardly had they gone when a second knock sounded, and in response to my "Herein!" in came the servants in a row, headed by Georg, the butler. Twisting the buttons of his livery, he made a little speech very fast, all of which I could not understand, but the burden of it was a wish that the lieber Gott would keep gnÄdiges FrÄulein in health and happiness all her days. Then he shook me warmly by the hand. The maids followed, each wishing me good fortune in some pretty couplet, and with a quaint little courtesy also shaking my hand. It was all done with such delightful simplicity that I can never forget it.

But this was not all the kindness I received, for when we went out to dinner, there on my plate was a beautiful basket of white roses from my "friends in the pension." I did not know what to say in my surprise, so I only exclaimed Danke Tausendmal (a thousand thanks), and sat down quickly, lest I should cry or do some equally foolish thing.

Just as we were leaving the room after dinner Frau von Waldfel came up to me, her niece by her side.

"I want to tell you, my dear, that I sent to Nuremberg for some Lebkuchen in honor of your birthday," she said. "You will find the package in your room. They tried to persuade me in the shops," she added, lowering her voice to a whisper, "that the Lebkuchen they sell here are as good as the genuine article, but I know better, and these are the real Nuremberg ones, famous the world over."

I thanked her heartily for her thoughtfulness, assuring her that I had often read of them in my fairy-tale books. Then they both shook hands and FrÄulein Hartmann, blushing slightly, leaned over and kissed me.

"It is the custom," she said shyly, "and perhaps you will miss your American friends less on this day if you realize you have made new ones here." Wasn't it sweet of her?

In the evening we celebrated by going to the PopulÄres Konzert—the Baron and Baroness, Herr Doktor, Lieutenant Linder, MÜtterchen, and myself. It was held in the Kaim Saal, where the Weingartner concerts are given, and rendered by the same orchestra under the leadership of Scharrer. In place of the rows of seats were substituted tables as at our "Pops" at home. The hall was extremely crowded when we entered and we did not at first obtain a table where we could sit together. MÜtterchen and I took places at one in the rear, and I noticed after we had been seated a few moments the disagreeable expression on the faces of the strangers at the table. In fact, two of them looked seriously offended and made some remark to each other, sotto voce, with a glance towards us. In bewilderment I wondered what could have destroyed their equanimity, for they seemed placid enough when we first came in. Suddenly it flashed across me.

"Don't you remember," I whispered to MÜtterchen, "Edith told us the other day it was the custom to bow to those sitting at table whenever we took a seat with them? We didn't do it, hence this atmosphere of ungracious toleration."

MÜtterchen looked alarmed, but just then the lieutenant came up to take us to a table large enough for our whole party, and we soothed the wounded feelings of those we had so unconsciously offended by bestowing the most cordial of bows as we went away.

This was not, however, our only unhappy experience, born of ignorance and American training, on that evening. It chanced, when we reached home after the concert, that the lieutenant turned to MÜtterchen first to say good night.

"A most enjoyable evening, gnÄdige Frau," he said, bending low over her hand. That he was to kiss it she had not the slightest premonition. In point of fact he didn't, but he tried to, while MÜtterchen innocently raised her hand at the critical moment and gave him a fearful rap under the nose. His glasses flew off with a crash, and he flushed very red, more from the blow than embarrassment. It takes a great deal to embarrass a German officer. While he groped about on the floor in search of his glasses, MÜtterchen stammered forth a flood of apologies in the best German the Berlitz School affords. We were indeed relieved when he recovered the glasses intact, and a hearty laugh banished our distress, for the Germans like a joke—provided it is not too subtle—as well as the rest of us.

Wagner's Ring of the Nibelungen is to be given in two weeks, and we purchased our seats to-day. I am all enthusiasm to hear it and am reading the poems. I have a splendid little book which has the leading motifs written out at the back and in the margins of the pages a statement of just what motif occurs at certain lines. It sounds complex,—doesn't it?—but is most interesting. Wish me joy, and in the meantime believe me, as always,

M.

P. S. FrÄulein Hartmann is not happy. I am convinced of it. To be sure, I never see her except at table, for her aunt keeps her always closely by her side. But to-day I passed the girl in the hall, and her eyes were swollen from crying. She looked so sad that I stopped and asked her if I could not do something for her. For a moment she looked at me hesitatingly and seemed about to speak, when in walked her unbearable aunt.

"My niece has a frightful headache," she exclaimed, "and bed is the best place for her."

I feel sure that odious lieutenant has been doing or not doing something that disturbs her. I am constantly meeting him on the stairs. He comes in every day to drink afternoon coffee and is usually sauntering down just as I come in from the chorus hour at the Conservatory. When he sees me he bows very low, and, with a twist of his tiresome mustache and a glance which he imagines is impressive, hopes "sehr geehrtes FrÄulein is in good health."

If it weren't for his stunning uniform I don't believe the pretty FrÄulein would look at him twice!