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 LudwigII. 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 nth 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.

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.