February 4.
Du liebes Cecilchen:—
I'd give every pfennig in my possession to walk into your study to-day and take you by surprise. In fact, I have stopped in the very midst of my orchestration lesson to tell you so. My chord of the seventh is unresolved, my flutes and oboes are hanging in midair, and my horns are blowing away on the fifth, all because a wave of the Indescribable swept over me, and I simply had to throw down my pencil and talk to you!
The preliminary symptoms of this abominable Something appeared this morning when my mail failed to arrive. Then after three hours' hard work on a new fugue-subject, I came to the conclusion that what I had written was absolutely worthless, and thrust it in the waste-paper basket. In the afternoon no letters came, but several newspapers, whose essential feature consisted in describing varied and brilliant festivities at home. I could not repress a sigh as I read. Finally Georg came bowing in with the announcement that the opera for the evening had been changed and Der Freischütz substituted for "Lohengrin." I felt like throwing my ink-well at the Obelisk, running down to the booking office in Promenade-Platz, and engaging a passage to America on the spot.
Not that I was really angry with the Obelisk, for I have but one dearer friend in all Munich, and that is the Fountain. The latter, however, no longer sings as I pass. It has, as it were, retired for the season, and a hideous paling of gray boards hides it completely from view. Such is the inartistic effect of winter. I can't tell you how much I miss its ever sympathetic, ever beautiful voice. Indeed, so barren and desolate is the upper end of the Platz, that I changed my route of walking and thus came to make the acquaintance of the Obelisk. Not only do I pass by daily, but whenever I look out of my window I can see in the distance its slender, black shaft sharply outlined against the sky. Strange, is it not, with what a keenly human note inanimate things sometimes appeal to us? Just as I hear and love the Voice in the Fountain, so I draw a feeling of protection from this towering creation of stone, as though a kindly sentinel were standing guard over me and mine.
Since my mood to-day is gray in color, I am going to tell you of the gayest thing which has happened since I wrote, namely, a gorgeous masked ball, for you know it is carnival season now and frivolity reigns supreme. I have been working so constantly lately—for my long lessons with Thuille and the work at the school take practically every moment of my time—that the ball seemed like an extraordinary piece of dissipation. Therefore I was quite excited as I joined the party of pensionnaires in the salon on Tuesday evening. What a cosmopolitan lot we were! The curious jumble of German, French, Italian, and English was laughable. The stout American and her pocket-edition of a husband have departed and given place to two Italian women who converse equally well in three languages. The Poet's Wife always speaks perfect French with Herr Doktor, which won his heart long ago. Of course we were all chatting of the frolic to come as we clambered into the droschkies awaiting us at the door. The ball, it seems, was given under the auspices of the press. The Baron had obtained invitations for us through a member of the Jugend staff. (The Jugend is that very artistic periodical which you have perhaps seen.) There were so many of us that a box had been engaged, for the affair was held at one of the theatres.
Every one who attended was obliged to wear a costume representing some feature pertaining to the woods, and it required no little thought to design something original and effective. Fräulein Hartmann and I had decided to go as flowers, and Mütterchen and the Poet's Wife put their heads together and created a Rose gown and a Violet gown. Frau von Waldfel was so agitated over her own costume that she quite forgot to criticise ours. She had chosen to represent a bee, and had arrayed herself in black netting. On her head was a crown of black and yellow, and from her shoulders hung, or should have hung, a pair of gauze wings. But something went wrong, and the wings, instead of suggesting airy flittings through space, drooped at a curious angle and gave the impression that they were not mates. However, her distress was mitigated by the Baroness, who declared that the costume was "wonderfully becoming," and as soon as she arrived she forgot to worry about her wings in the excitement of the ball itself.
What a fascinating sight burst upon us as we stepped inside the ballroom! The whole place was alive with a dancing crowd of fairies, gnomes, flowers, butterflies, and dryads, who flitted past in a bewildering whirl of ever changing color. All the women wore little black masks, which gave them a most coquettish appearance. The men were not masked, but their costumes were fully as artistic. As I watched the glittering throng moving to the strains of a fascinating waltz which came floating out from behind a grove of evergreens on the stage, I could easily fancy I was in fairyland.
Just as we were about to cross the hall Fräulein Hartmann caught me by the arm.
"I've torn my gown," she said in a hurried, excited manner, as she held up the ragged ruffle on the edge of her train. "I must go to the dressing-room and fix it. Will you tell my aunt? And oh! please say it may take twenty minutes or—or a half-hour."