Nor have they an ounce of the artistic snobbishness made fashionable by peoples with whom music is an acquired taste rather than an instinct. They are as frank in enjoyment of “The Merry Widow” as of a Strauss recital with the master conducting; because they regard each as a high art unto itself. There is no aristocracy of music, and so there is no commercialism to degrade it. One may hear grand opera from an excellent seat for fifty cents; or the Philharmonic Orchestra, with Weingartner conducting, for the same price. The secret of the whole system is that to the Viennese good music is not a luxury, but food and drink and essential to life; and therefore to be had by everyone.
Concert audiences are attentive to a degree, and during the performance the slightest disturbing sound is sternly hissed. This is true even in the public parks where the people listen in crowds to the fine military bands that play every day. While at the Volksgarten (frequented by the middle classes and by nobility as well) Patsy was crushed on her first afternoon by the stertorous rebuke of a wienerische dowager, because the child removed her gloves during the overture!
“Disagreeable old thing,” grumbled Patsy, when it was finished, “doesn’t she know I can’t hear with my gloves on?”
Captain Max, in a tumult of perturbation over the episode, solemnly suggested that he convey this unhappy fact to the good lady. But Patsy’s naughty mouth was twitching at the corners, and she said she had rather he ordered chocolate. She has a conscience somewhere, has Patsy; in spite of being a pretty woman.
We drank our delicious brew of Mélange between Beethoven and Bach, and had another after the Schumann Symphony—being seated like everyone else at one of the little tables that fill the Volksgarten. This is under cover in winter, and three times a week indoor classical concerts are held, under the direction of the leading conductors. Ladies bring their crochet, young girls their gallants; and during the intermissions it is a lively scene, when tables are pushed together, waiters hurry to and fro with the creamy chocolate, or big frothing seidels of Münchener, and conversation and good cheer hum all round.
Let the orchestra reappear, however, and there is silence—so prompt as to be almost comical. Sentences are left unfinished, chairs are hastily and noiselessly shoved back, and the buzzing crowd of two minutes ago is still as a pin; alert for the first note of music. The tickets for these symphonious feasts cost thirty cents, but the audience could not show more devoted attention (or get finer return) if they had paid five dollars.
Here, as everywhere in Vienna, one is impressed with the good looks and attractiveness of the people in general. In their careful grooming and prevailing air of prosperity, they bear a distinct resemblance to Americans; and one may go deeper under the surface and find a reason for this in the highly complex mixture of race in both nations. There is the same tall, rather aggressive build among the men; the same piquant features, bright hair and pretty colouring among the women of the two countries. And, to go further, there is the same supreme fondness for dress and outward show, that results in reckless extravagance.
With the Viennese, however, this trait is not subjective—i. e., to create a personal impression—but simply part and parcel of the central aim of their existence: to have a good time, and enjoy life to the fullest. They are by no means a people with a purpose, like Americans; they have neither the desire, nor the shrewdness, nor the ambition to make something remarkable of themselves. Rather do they frolic through life like thoughtless children; laughing, crying, falling down and picking themselves up—only to fall again; but always good-natured, kindly and gay, with a happy-go-lucky cheerfulness that is very appealing as well as contagious whilst one is among them.
There is none of the studied courtesy of the Parisian, nor yet his studied elegance; but a bright spontaneity both in outward effect and natural manner, which shows itself in many captivating little customs of everyday. Take for instance the pretty fashion of kissing a lady’s hand: in France this is confined to occasions of ceremony, and so creates at once an atmosphere of the formal; in Vienna it is the ordinary expression of joyous welcome, so that even the shop-keepers, on the entrance of a lady customer, exclaim: “Kuss die Hand, gnädige Frau!” While to a gentleman they declare: “I have the honour (to greet you) meinherr!”
Everyone is anxious to please, and quick to help the stranger in his struggles with language. As in Bavaria, the German spoken is softened of its original starchiness; so that mädchen becomes mädl, bischen bissell, etc. Strict Hanoverians scorn such vandalism, but in the mouth of the gentler-tongued Southerners it is very pretty. The “low dialect” of the people, that is, the typical wienerisch, is an appalling jargon quite incomprehensible to the foreigner. But kindliness, the language spoken by one and all of the warm-hearted Viennese, is everywhere recognized and appreciated.