I am to begin soon to study overture form, and Thuille asked me to bring Beethoven's overtures with me at my next lesson.
Later.
We are both much struck with the change in Fräulein Hartmann. She is much paler than she was before we went to Meran, and flushes nervously at the least excitement. Mütterchen, who has the misfortune to be next to Frau von Waldfel at table, inquired if her niece were ill.
"Indeed, no!" answered the Hungarian woman somewhat sharply. "What can you expect when a girl betrothed to an officer makes ready for a grand wedding in the spring? There is much to be done and dozens of gowns to be ordered. My niece is merely tired with the happiness of it all."
At that moment I caught Fräulein Hartmann exchanging a glance across the table with the Poet's Wife. In that one, quick flash I read many things, for the eyes of the former betokened genuine distress, while the reassuring look which met hers was that of a sympathizing friend. A second later the Poet's Wife was tactfully leading Frau von Waldfel to give her views on the new cooking-school, while Fräulein Hartmann abstractedly replied to the queries of a stout American woman who sat next her. This new arrival is merely here for a few days. She and her apologetic-appearing husband are "doing" Germany, Italy, and France complete in three weeks.
"I want ter know where those pictures of Reuben are. Baedeker stars 'em three times," said the stout traveller, turning to me.
I was longing to ask "Reuben who"? but Mütterchen, evidently sensing my temptation, pressed my foot under the table; so I merely said as politely as I could, "I think you mean the pictures in the old Pinakothek by Rubens," and gave them the directions to Barer-strasse. While they were commenting upon them, I wondered what could have happened during our absence to make Fräulein Hartmann and the Poet's Wife close friends. I wanted to ask if Lieutenant Blum had been at Meran, but intuitively I felt it best not to mention the subject. Here is indeed a romance to which I have found no key, as Omar would say.
The Conservatory is open again and everything is in full swing. In spite of the fact that I have very little opportunity to practise on the piano—because my work for Thuille requires the greater part of my time,—I enjoy the lessons immensely. When we read at sight I find them especially interesting. We have been playing some splendid things for two pianos, among them those lovely Schumann variations in D major. If you don't know them get them by all means. Yesterday we finished Brahms' symphony in E minor, with its vigorous allegro giocoso, and have begun Liszt's Symphonic Poems.
How everything helps everything else in music! The orchestra reveals its nuances twice as clearly when one is familiar with the actual material of a work, and then in composition it is absolutely necessary to have a broad field of literature from which to draw models and examples.
Poor Frau Bianci is in a terrible state over my pronunciation of German. "It will go in speaking," she says, "but, ach Gott! must be much finer for singing!" I managed to get Beethoven's "Kennst du das Land?" to suit her, but only after much toil for both of us. I repeated each phrase a dozen times after her before I was allowed to sing it. Truly, I feel very young and irresponsible. Don't talk about musical temperament and feeling to me! My one idea is to get the vowels open enough and to pronounce these fiendish umlauts in the approved fashion. I fell down most shamefully on Schubert's "Marguerite at the Spinning-Wheel." You know how wonderfully sad and beautiful that is. Bianci was quite pleased at my rendering of the first verse. Then I sang the second, where the music works up climactically and the words run,