It was just by the band-stand, in the delightful sunshine of our second morning here, that I had the pleasure of meeting Carl Zerrahn. You remember the time when he was such a prominent conductor and musician in Boston, do you not? We had sat down to rest and hear the music when Mr. S—— pointed to the tall, commanding figure of an elderly man slowly approaching.
"Here comes Zerrahn," he said; "he is, alas, almost blind now, and cannot recognize any one except at close range."
A thrill of sadness swept over me, as I recalled him as the first conductor I ever saw, standing on the stage at the old Music Hall and sweeping the Handel and Haydn Society along in those great choruses of the "Messiah" and "Elijah." His hair is now snow white, and his walk feeble, but he stands as proudly erect as when he wielded the baton in the height of his success.
He did not perceive us approaching, although the members of the Capelle, who all knew him, watched us curiously. When we were within a few feet of him, we introduced ourselves as old friends whom he had, perhaps, by this time forgotten. It was charming to see his frank delight in meeting us again and in learning news of Boston, which he loves very dearly.
"I am staying with my son here," he said, "but I feel that Boston is my home, and I shall go back there in a year or so. I worked and lived and grew in Boston. It is to me what no other city is."
He asked about the Handel and Haydn Society, inquired about my musical studies and the Munich opera, and was so thoroughly kindly and interested in everything pertaining to his art that I could not but think of Victor Hugo's lines, "There are no wrinkles on the heart."
In the afternoon we go driving over some of these countless roads about Meran. It is like travelling through a magnificent picture gallery. The other day we went shopping. You never saw anything so fascinating as the stores. The principal ones are in the "Lauben," the quaintest of streets, whose sidewalks are built under arcades. When we enter, the girl in attendance always says "Küss' die Hand." The first time I heard this I frankly put out my hand to be kissed. A laugh from them all made me blushingly draw it back again. I learned that even here in this cool sequestered vale of the Adige people do not say what they mean. It seems the proper thing to murmur "Küss' die Hand," but no one but a servant would ever think of actually doing it. It is a sort of "take the will for the deed" arrangement.
The prettiest thing happened here this New Year's morning. We were all sitting in Mr. S——'s study hearing the latest American paper (two weeks old) read aloud, when there came a rap at the door. A moment later the gardener, his wife, and two little girls entered, dressed in their holiday clothes. They all bowed solemnly. Then the parents withdrew to the background, the father nervously turning his cap around in his brown hands, while his wife, in true German fashion, held the bundle, a huge thing clumsily done up in white paper. The older of the two little girls, who could not have been more than five, shyly advanced. In a high, excited voice she recited a little poem about the New Year. Her sister, no less thrilled by the occasion, recited very rapidly two more verses about Freude (joy) and Glück (happiness). As a finale they together took the bundle and with the prettiest of courtesies handed it to Herr and Frau von S——, "with best wishes for a happy New Year and many thanks for their kindness." The S——s were much pleased and touched by this charming simplicity. The package proved to be a beautiful plant of azaleas, and the whole quartet were radiant with delight as we passed the gift among us and praised its beauty. They went away with many bows, looking, oh! so happy, and Mrs. S—— ordered an extra supply of beer for them in the kitchen.
That reminds me of a curious custom here. Did I tell you that a servant is engaged at so much a week with beer?[1] Mrs. S—— says the maids make a dreadful uproar if their beer is not forthcoming, and the cook insists on several bottles a day. I should think this might be detrimental to the cooking, but Mr. S—— assures me that it has quite the contrary effect, and the more beer she drinks the better she cooks.
This afternoon we took a long drive, returning through the town, so I had a fine chance to see the peasants in gala array. Near a wayside shrine (one finds them everywhere here) we came upon a crowd of young peasants sitting on the stone wall, or leaning lazily against it smoking meerschaum pipes. The splendor of their costumes was quite startling. Their funny little round hats, usually severely plain, were coquettishly decorated with bunches of yellow flowers fastened on the brim at the back. Their coats and trousers were of corduroy. Most noticeable of all were their waistcoats of scarlet or bright green.