Never did the qualities of American shoes appear so attractive as when we saw them invitingly displayed in the window of the new shop. Edith was so delighted at finding something that would fit that she paid without a murmur the fabulous price demanded, and invited me to drink chocolate with her afterwards at the Hof-café.
But just take a word of warning, Cecilia, and don't get caught in any such predicament yourself!
Munich, April 2.
The softest zephyr whispering to a rose; the faint fragrance of a lily swaying on its stem; a fairy cobweb lying shimmering in the sun; this is Beethoven as played by Ysaye. Never shall I forget his playing, and never do I want to hear any one else play the G major sonata.
Frau Langenhan-Hirzel and Ysaye are giving a series of concerts consisting of Beethoven's sonatas for violin and piano. Polly and I "went Kategorie" last week. To "go Kategorie" means that we used our students' tickets, or Kategorie-Karten, and obtained admittance at a reduced price. We did not receive a seat, and indeed none were to be had, for as we entered the hall of the Bayerische Hof, every place was taken and crowds were standing in the aisles. Accordingly, we made our way to the balcony, for beneath the windows there runs a low, broad step which answers very well in place of a seat. When we arrived, however, we found that this, too, had been taken possession of by a crowd of students who were sitting closely together, their knees almost touching their chins, and most of them holding the score on their laps. We were at a loss what to do, for that we might be obliged to stand had never occurred to us.
"There must be a step or a window ledge somewhere," said Polly, looking vainly about. Suddenly I spied a table in the corner, and I threw her a meaning glance. Quick as a flash she understood and was too good a Bohemian to be troubled by conventionalities. A moment later we were gravely sitting on the table side by side, our feet not touching the floor, our eyes not seeing the stage, but our ears straining to catch every note of that wonderful music. Polly had brought her score. One of the players in the Kaim Saal orchestra comes to her weekly and they read together, so she is familiar with all the sonatas. But after a time I shut my eyes to the printed symbols. I wanted only to hear, for from the moment Ysaye draws his bow across the strings "the weariness, the fever, and the fret" fade away, and one lives in another world. I have never heard anything more exquisite than his pianissimo. So marvellously legato and delicate it is, like a thread of gold, that I held my breath for fear the tone might break. It reminded me of all that is beautiful and dainty and lovely. By some odd association of ideas, Shelley's lines about the lily of the valley came to me:
"The light of its tremulous bells is seen
Through their pavilions of tender green."
Frau Langenhan-Hirzel played delightfully. But what impressed me most forcibly about her and about Ysaye was their perfect control.
After all the word artist means nothing less than control. No matter how deeply an artist's feelings may be stirred, no matter how moved he may be by the intensity, the passion or the anguish of the moment, he must always be the master of his emotions. He must make others cry, weep, exult, but must himself, while sensing every suggestion, remain in perfect realization of the situation. Picture Elizabeth sobbing in the midst of the Tannhäuser prayer! Or Paderewski breaking off in the middle of a bar and burying his face in his hands! And yet an artist must feel more keenly than the average man. Verily, the gods demand miracles!