"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
Wi-i-ine, di-vine.
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.