March 3, 10.30 P. M.

I have just returned from the Moderner Abend at the Kaim Saal, and am so excited that to go calmly to bed and to sleep is an impossibility. I don't know when I have enjoyed anything as much. The concert, as you may have judged by the name, was made up of compositions by living composers. Stavenhagen arranged it and all the numbers but one were played for the first time. Here is the program:

1.	Singspiel Overture	Edgar Istel.
First time!
2.	Ein ZweigesprÄch, Tone-poem.	Max Schillings.
(For solo violin, solo 'cello, and small orchestra.)
	[Richard Rettich—Heinrich Warnke.]
First time!
3.	Scene and Monologue of Lukas from the Opera Der Conegidor	Hugo Wolf.
	[Anton Dressler.]
First time!
4.	Klavierkonzert (op. 6) in B flat minor	Felix vom Rath.
	[Anna Langenhan-Hirzel.]
5.	III. Act of Gugeline	Ludwig Thuille.
	[Gugeline, Agnes Stavenhagen. The Prince, Franz Bergen.]
First time!

The names in brackets are those of the soloists. For some reason or other the order was altered. Thuille's piece and Hugo Wolf's changed places. Edgar Istel, who conducted his own overture, is a tall, broad-shouldered, fine-looking young fellow, and a pupil of Thuille. I am in doubt as to his nationality for he certainly looks too well groomed for a German. The Schillings piece was a lovely, sustained thing. That man certainly knows how to write for the 'cello! We heard his opera Ingwelde last week, and remarked the same thing then. The third number was, however, the number of the evening. I wish I could describe to you the enchanting beauty of this music from Gugeline—its delicacy, freshness, and tenderness. And yet withal there is no semblance of insipidity about it, for in spite of the dominance of fanciful, graceful motifs the music every now and then assumes a more passionate tinge, as though an undercurrent of deeper feeling flowed beneath its charming surface. Agnes Stavenhagen, the wife of the director, sang with great niceness. Thuille has a trick of ending a phrase by a jump to a high pianissimo note, and she rendered this most effectively.

Prejudiced as I naturally was in favor of my Maestro, I was not alone in my enthusiasm, for at the close of the piece the audience burst into a storm of applause, cheering, stamping, and crying "Bravo! Bravo!" "Thuille! Thuille!" The whole house rose as one person. Thuille, who had been sitting about eight rows back, at length came forward. He did not mount the stage, but remained below the conductor's stand, bowing and smiling in the delightful, unaffected fashion peculiar to him. Again and again he was recalled, the audience remaining standing and applauding. Clearly, aside from his musical ability, he is a great favorite in Munich. When the tempest had at last subsided and we had settled back into our places, Frau Langenhan-Hirzel appeared to play the concerto of vom Rath. Her entrance was the signal for a fresh outburst of applause, and there was no more enthusiastic group in the hall than ours in the east corner, for Polly, Edith, and Louise are all her pupils and loyally adore her. "Frau Langenhan," as they generally call her, looked very young as she took her place at the piano. She is slight, and her short black hair curls roguishly about her head, while a pair of dark, innocent eyes give her an almost childlike appearance. But however youthful she may seem, she plays with a mastery and force unusual in a woman. Lescheticsky is proud of her I hear, and one can readily see why. The concerto itself is most brilliant and was originally composed and dedicated to her. Long and prolonged applause followed its close. Frau Langenhan-Hirzel bowed repeatedly, and at length vom Rath came forward and joined her. He is tall, with extremely light hair. In spite of his dignified bearing he was blushing up to his ears with embarrassment, and looked greatly relieved to sit down.

As for the last number, we had forgotten all about it, for we started impetuously off to the green room. When we entered, there was the little pianist calmly smoking a cigarette and carelessly shaking her black curls from to time with a characteristic movement of the head. The girls rushed enthusiastically up to her. After the first eager words of congratulation they presented me, and she was most cordial in her greeting as she turned and shook hands, holding her cigarette in her fingers. Quite a number of the German women smoke and she does so constantly, in fact even when giving lessons, which goes ahead of Thuille.

But my head all the time was full of Gugeline—how could one forget it?—and I looked about for Thuille. He was talking to Stavenhagen in the corner, with his back towards me. A moment later he turned, and as I went forward with outstretched hand he met me half way. The beauty of his music had so intensely moved me, that I grew excited when I endeavored to congratulate him, and my German flew away as if on wings. I could only murmur stupidly something about "wunderschÖn" (very beautiful) and "entzÜckend" (charming), the sole adjectives I could at the moment recall. Perhaps my expression told him more than my words, for he was good enough to look much pleased as he shook hands warmly.

Then we girls all came out together. None of us cared to hear the rest of the last number. I for one wanted to be quiet and think—or rather to hear again in my mind those haunting, exquisite strains. Is there anything in the world more marvellous than music or more indescribable than its hidden soul? And now I must to bed, and hear it all over again, I hope, in my dreams.

MÜnchen, March 6.

As soon as my greetings with Thuille were over to-day I hastened to congratulate him again on the success of his Gugeline music last Monday. This time my German was a little more fluent, and I even made bold to ask him how long it had taken him to write the act. He said that he started it in the middle of June, 1899. After waiting two weeks for text from Bierbaum, and after countless other interruptions, he finished it by the end of August.

Then began the lesson. With a sinking heart I placed my fugue on the rack. I don't know how many hours I had worked on it! At any rate the stretto had almost reduced me to tears. A stretto is a net, and if one is not constantly on the watch, he is caught in its meshes. Thuille looked it over, made some corrections, and to my surprise said, "Sie sind recht fleissig gewesen, FrÄulein. Die Fugue ist gut" (You have been very industrious. The fugue is good). My spirits rose with a leap, for he seldom praises.

The pupil who was to follow me was late, so I had time as I drew on my gloves to express the wish that we might hear his new opera produced at the Hof-Theatre.

"I don't know about that," said he laughing. "I am fortunate if I have my Lobetanz given. I expect that will appear about the twenty-second of the month."

Turning, he opened one of the drawers of his desk. "Here are the complete scores of them all," he said, as he touched the backs of the great books with a tender, almost paternal pride; "and here is that place for the wood-wind in Gugeline which you remarked on."

He pointed out the passage in the score, and to my delight took his seat at the piano and played for some moments.

"The most laborious thing I ever did in my life was writing out the orchestral parts from here on," he said, playing the theme of the duet. "I thought I should never get it done."

His words made me think of something Mr. Chadwick had said in class one day, shortly after the completion of his lyric drama "Judith." He declared that reducing the orchestral parts so as to make a complete piano accompaniment was one of the most tedious things he ever experienced. After all, my dear, the gods are just, and to be great does not mean that one is free from drudgery.

Chadwick, by the bye, always had evidences of his energy on every hand in the form of proofs or manuscript lying carelessly about in his studio; perhaps a song, or a string quartette, or merely the key to his harmony book which he was getting out last spring. Thuille, on the contrary, has nothing to indicate what he is doing—except cigarettes.

After my lesson I stopped in at Polly's. I found her playing away at a fearful rate on Saint-SaËns' G minor concerto, and she looked so pale and tired that I made her call everything else off and go for a walk. We found, however, that by hurrying we could spend a half-hour in the old Pinakothek, and so we made our way to Barerstrasse. You must come over if only to see these splendid Holbeins! The master's portrait of himself is alone worth a trip, and then DÜrer's four apostles! The St.Paul is my favorite, he is so majestic, but Polly prefers St.Mark. She says he looks happier than the others.

I must not forget to tell you about taking tea at the Sterners'. They live over by the river, and we wandered through a maze of streets before reaching the right house. Then we climbed numberless flights of stairs in true German fashion, and found ourselves in the most charming apartment under the very roof itself. Mrs. Sterner received us in a picturesque, low-studded room, which had at one end a large bay-window, where the tea table was spread. She is very slight and girlish in appearance. As we sat sipping our tea I continually caught tantalizing glimpses of a big studio at the farther side. It was not long before the artist himself entered and invited us, when we had quite finished, to see his "work shop."

Such a fascinating place as it is, not at all of the conventional order, with bizarre nick-nacks and curios, oriental hangings, and stale, tobacco-scented air; but a big, light-flooded, healthy room adorned merely with sketches, pictures and easels, for the Sterners have only pitched their tent in Munich for a brief season and are off in the spring for Italy.

There is a wealth of treasures in Mr. Sterner's portfolio, and his field of work is a delightfully broad one. Of his illustrations, those for a new edition of Edgar Allan Poe's works interested me most. Each picture had such definiteness about it that one could guess at once the lines it interpreted. Two of his most famous paintings which we asked to see were in America, but he showed us the exquisitely taken photographs. One represents a charming child, the other is that which I have seen so often in your own music room,—William Mason at the keyboard.

"And the new picture, is it finished yet?" asked Edith, who had been there before.

"It's the old story!" he said; "I've put it aside to work on pot-boilers!"

Fancy calling those wonderful illustrations of his by such a brutal name.

Thursday.

At last, my dear, I have something definite to tell you about FrÄulein Hartmann. The most distressing thing occurred at dinner to-day. Just as we were having salad and composedly conversing about Arabic customs—a favorite subject of Herr Doktor and the Poet—in came the Italian ladies, with profuse apologies for their tardiness. They had been "doing" the Bavarian National Museum, and lingered too long over the ivory collection. One of them crossed to FrÄulein Hartmann's place and handed her a letter.

"I met the postman on the stairs," she said, "and told him I would take any mail up, so he gave me this."

FrÄulein thanked her for her kindness, then, glancing at the handwriting, suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. A second later her aunt, who had been looking over her shoulder, snatched the letter from her hand. Frau Von Waldfel's face was crimson with anger and her black eyes snapped maliciously. "I'll look after this, young lady," she said, thrusting the letter into her pocket. "A pretty pass when engaged girls receive love letters from other than their betrothed."

Her voice echoed harshly in the complete stillness of the room. FrÄulein's face was a study—anger, mortification, and resentment at the insult thus publicly inflicted on her. She started as if to retort, then, recovering her self-possession, she folded her napkin with dignity, rose and left the room. Her head was proudly erect, but her blue eyes, usually so tranquil, were smouldering darkly.

Frau von Waldfel looked even more enraged than before, that her niece should dare to depart without her permission. Muttering to herself, she pushed back her plate with a sharp rattle of her knife and fork, and went out with a heavy step.

We were all speechless with astonishment. The opportune arrival of coffee served to relieve the tension, and the calm voice of the Poet's Wife was like oil on tempestuous waters, as she inquired whether coffee were a favorite drink of the American people. When the meal was over she drew me into the hall.

"When you are through with your lessons come and see me in my room," she said.

That afternoon she told me the following about FrÄulein Hartmann. It seems that FrÄulein's parents, who live in Mannheim, are poor people. Her aunt, however, is extremely rich. When, last spring, FrÄulein came out of the convent, Frau von Waldfel sent for her to pay her a visit. She was very ambitious that her niece should make a brilliant match, for she is, as you must have guessed, an intensely proud woman. Indeed, so anxious was she that she offered to pay the dowry and introduce FrÄulein into society. This offer was accepted with delight by the Hartmanns, and FrÄulein made her dÉbut in Berlin, where her aunt had taken a fancy to spend the winter. Among other men whom she met was Lieutenant Blum. He had, without doubt, heard the rumors of Frau von Waldfel's wealth, for he immediately began to pay court. Matters were speedily arranged between the two families and the young people were betrothed. FrÄulein's parents were greatly pleased; Frau von Waldfel, radiant. Such an honor that her niece should wed an officer! Only FrÄulein Hartmann did not seem to rejoice as she should over the good fortune. She would have been less than human had not all these beautiful surroundings, these fascinating frocks and these flattering friends of her aunt pleased her. But there was another man—there always is a third person when you stop to think of it—in form of a student, who had lived next door to the FrÄulein all her life. He loved her, and she was half in love with him. In fact, affairs would speedily have come to a climax had not Frau von Waldfel taken it into her head to send for her niece just as their love-affair was at this critical point.

"As time has passed," continued the Poet's Wife, "the less she has cared for the lieutenant and the more she realizes that her feeling for Heinrich is deeper than the passing fancy which her family would have her believe. Don't blame her, my dear. You American girls are brought up very differently from ours here, and it is hard for you to understand. The letter to-day was, I feel sure, from Heinrich. Much as she has longed to hear from him, she is too honorable to permit any correspondence. A short time ago, however, Heinrich wrote a letter without her aunt's knowledge, and begged her to see him. After much misgiving she consented and a meeting was arranged——"

"At a carnival ball?" I interrupted.

"Yes. How did you guess? Probably the rash fellow has dared to write and propose another scheme. 'Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,'" she quoted.

"How will it all come out, I wonder," said I, puzzled.

"Indeed, I am wondering the same thing. It was while you were in Meran, you know, that FrÄulein told me this. Her aunt was ill with the gout, and one morning we went for a walk together. She was feeling very unhappy, for in some way an unpleasant rumor concerning Blum's past had reached her, and I suppose the dear child couldn't keep her heart pent up any longer."

At her mention of Meran my mind flew back to the day I had seen the man I thought was Blum on the Promenade.

"Was the lieutenant in town then?" I asked.

"No. He had been called away on some law business," she answered.

A caller came in just at this point, so we had no more opportunity to talk together. I feel perfectly sure now that it was Blum who was having such a gay time with that crowd of people. He may have used that law story merely as an excuse to take a holiday. I can't bear to think of that sensitive, lovable girl as his wife!

Dear me, Cecilia, this is a strange, strange world! One would imagine that with experience and the discretion which comes with years, things would straighten themselves out a bit; but the older one grows the queerer life is!

Yours problematically and abstractedly,

M.