Gordone, Lake Garda, April 10.
Dear Cecilia:—
I am writing in the loveliest and most romantic of gardens. It lies on the very edge of Lake Garda. Indeed, only a wall separates this wealth of green from the blue waves which plash rhythmically against their stone barrier. Above me are the apple blossoms; on either side lie tangles of vine and roses. In the distance are the neat white paths leading to the hotel where we are staying. It is not quite so civilized here as farther up the slope, where the plants grow in decorous rows and carefully laid out designs, but I like it much better, and besides, I get the breeze—a soft, legato breeze—from the water, and a sight of the picturesque island—as yet nameless to me—just across.
We found our way to this charming spot by means of our old friend, the Brenner Pass. How changed it all was from three months ago! Then everything was covered with snow, and the trees bowed into crystal arches under the heavy weight of ice. Now the whole earth seems made new with the soft green of spring. As we rode along every now and then we caught sight of a fruit tree in full bloom: peach blossoms of misty pink making their bit of valley all aglow, apple blossoms lighting up the shadow of a threatening, black mountain, whose snow-tipped summit seemed in some strange way akin to the patch of white at its base.
We reached Bozen at seven o'clock, and to our chagrin could find no accommodation at the hotels. In vain we pleaded with the polite proprietors. At loss what to do we followed in the footsteps of a stupidly smiling Dienstmann who had seized our luggage at the station and who now assured us he knew of an excellent inn where we could find rooms. Putting our trust in the gods we turned into the courtyard of a quaint little inn called the Goldene Taube, and inquired of the smiling Hausfrau if we could have lodgings for the night. With repeated courtesies she replied that there was but one room left, but it was a wonderfully beautiful room if we cared to see it. We assured her that we would take it on the spot, and gratefully climbed three narrow flights of stairs without a murmur. Though extremely primitive, the house was neat and clean, but we involuntarily exchanged glances when the landlady threw open the door at the head of the last flight and bowed for us to pass into the room she had so flatteringly described. Such a cubby-hole of a place, with a sloping roof, no carpet and one diamond-paned window, from which, by stretching out my arm, I could touch the window of the opposite house! Did I say no carpet? Then I most humbly apologize, for before each bed was a blue fragment which, by a powerful stretch of the imagination might, I suppose, be called a rug. The floor creaked unmercifully every time we walked across it, and we were terribly afraid we should lose something between the cracks. MÜtterchen was inclined to regard the situation tragically, but I was rather enjoying the whole experience, secretly congratulating myself on being in an attic chamber which might bear some resemblance to those in which the great composers slept, ate, toiled and created their immortal works.
We had a walk and a drive the following morning and found Bozen much like Meran; both have the same dingy Lauben, the frescoed houses, the narrow streets and picturesque shrines. Our drive to Gries was through a veritable garden, for the fruit trees were abloom on every side. In the afternoon we took the train to Riva, a train which ran over the narrowest track I ever saw, high up on the mountains.
Riva is a charming place at the head of the lake, and has a most wonderful new road cut through tunnels of rock along the precipices of the west bank. I bought four oranges just as we were going on board the boat for the ridiculous sum of twenty heller (five cents). You should have seen the man who was selling them. He looked like the genuine villain of comic opera. He wore a black, broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, a full cape, which fell to his feet, with a collar of well-worn fur, and gold earrings. He was very gray and wrinkled, and oh! how he tried to cheat me! I had not had the sad and bitter experiences of shopping in Rome six years ago for nothing, however, and so I determined to settle on a price and remain firm. Accordingly I offered twenty heller for four oranges. My Italian is not fluent. It is limited to musical terms and a few selections from grand opera. I tried to recall something fitting, but the only lines which came to me were those of an aria from Semiramide, which could hardly be said to fit the occasion. How grieved, how shocked he looked—the old rascal!—as he assured me that he could not permit his wonderful fruit to be so cruelly sacrificed, although nothing would delight him more than to please the American signorina. Accordingly I turned to go in dignified silence. In a second the oranges were done up in paper and given over, with the astounding announcement that never before in his life had he allowed his fruit to be sold at so absurd a sum, but—with a telling glance from under his black hat—the charms of the signorina were irresistible. At my first opportunity I told of the bargain I had made.
"Twenty heller for four oranges!" exclaimed the gentleman who sat next us. "Why, my dear young lady, for thirty heller (eight cents) I just bought a whole dozen!"
The sail down the lake is a beautiful one. Such picturesque little towns nestling down by the shore, such bewildering orange groves along the hillsides, such quaint spired churches perched in the most inaccessible places! The "witchery of the soft blue sky" enchants one. The lake, too, is of a wonderful tint. What a land this must be for artists! Such color, color everywhere! I wonder they don't all come over here and live forever.
The card which I sent you from MÜnchen, told you we were going straight to Milan, so you doubtless are wondering how we chanced to stop off here. Just as we were leaving Garda our boat ran aground. This caused the wildest commotion among the townspeople who came flocking down to the shore and stood in lines along the breakwater—the women and girls bareheaded, with red shawls about their shoulders and blue aprons over their short skirts, the men and boys in loose shirts, with scarlet handkerchiefs carelessly knotted about their throats and any sort of a cap on the back of their heads. They shouted to each other, they gesticulated wildly, they speculated on the length of time before we could be launched. Indeed, I do not believe there had been as much excitement in the little village for years. So long were we delayed that on inquiry we found that we should arrive too late to catch the train for Milan, and on the suggestion of an English lady with whom we had become acquainted in that delightfully informal way known to travellers, we decided to stay at Gordone over night. That is how I chanced to be writing in this fascinating garden and to be hearing how Italian birds sing their morning pÆan.
I did not have time before leaving MÜnchen to tell you of the last two concerts we heard there. The first was the presentation of Bach's St.Matthew under the direction of Zumpe, with the Hof-Theatre chorus, orchestra and soloists. It strikes me that the Germans do not know how to sing oratorio. They lack that broad, cantabile style. Indeed, this branch of music is heard least of all here. Outside of the Rhine towns, which, I hear, have occasional festivals, little interest is shown in oratorio. At the St.Matthew the artists sang unsympathetically, but the choral singing was magnificent. Is there anything in the world grander, more truly religious than a Bach choral? One listens and the complexities, the sordidness, the trivialities of life all vanish. One feels only his own insignificance and humbly raises his voice with the rest in adoration of that Greatness which is eternal.
The other concert was the last one in the Weingartner series. The hall was packed with people, many of whom were standing. The program began with Cherubini's overture to Anacreon. Then came a delightful concerto by Haydn for strings, two obligato violins and an obligato 'cello. Last of all was Beethoven's ninth symphony. The stage had been enlarged to accommodate the big chorus. This was the first time I had ever heard this stupendous work. The singers sang with great spirit and as though they loved every note. What a magnificent main theme that is with the rushing counterpoint in the strings! I should think the clarinet players would be in their element, there are so many lovely bits for that instrument. And the drum in the scherzo—who could ever forget it?
At the close of the concert Weingartner was presented with an enormous laurel wreath, amid the prolonged cheers and applause of the audience. After coming out repeatedly to bow his thanks, he finally expressed them in a graceful little speech. I was too far away to catch all that he said, but at the end his Auf Wiedersehen bis nÄchstes Jahr (Till we meet again next year) brought forth a tremendous thunder of applause. And so exit Weingartner. I do hope I shall see him conduct again before I leave Germany.
This afternoon we take the boat across the lake and then the train to Milan,—so addio carissima, as they say in this lovely country.
Milan, Easter Sunday, 1.20 A. M.
Easter Sunday is just beginning, and I am about to retire after an evening spent at La Scala in hearing Verdi's Un Ballo in Maschera. Am I living in another world? Can Germany and the dear old Hof-Theatre be but a day's trip away? When one has for months been going to the opera at seven and returning at the discreet hour of nine-thirty it seems nothing less than wild dissipation to find the final curtain falling in the wee small hours o' the night. Milan and MÜnchen may bear a certain euphonic similarity, but they are really as unlike as black and white.
In the Munich opera house we are generally directed to our seats by a languorous gesture of the hand and a pertinent glance towards the desired row. Here, however, the usher seized our checks, muttered to himself, shouted excitedly to a fellow-usher, tried to direct us and several other people at once, urged us to hurry, and finally landed us breathless in our places. There were yet five minutes before the overture.
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.
