An
American Girl
in Munich

Copyright, 1905,
By Little, Brown, and Company.
All rights reserved

Published March, 1905

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.

To Mütterchen

I

Munich, September 15, 1902.

Dear Cecilia:—

Here I am in my Mecca at last after a "calm sea and prosperous voyage." Would that you were with me to share my pleasures, and, yes, I am selfish enough to add, my troubles, too, for you have such a magical power of charming away the latter that they seem but trifling vexations. Then I should so enjoy watching your delicious blue eyes open wide at these Germans and their queer customs, and oh! how you would elevate the tip of your aristocratic nose at my box of a study, which, however, I consider the height of cosiness and comfort—from a German standpoint.

Lest by this last remark I've imperilled my reputation for patriotism, let me hasten to assure you that I am as far from adopting a foreign point of view in my contemplation of Man and the Universe as when we used to walk from college down to Harvard Square and "have out" the discussions kindled by our four o'clock lecture. It's only in the concrete things of life that I've been forced to abandon my Bostonian, and therefore, of course, unimpeachable standards. I have learned how unwise a thing it would be for me to say to a German landlady, "Show me an apartment with running water, steam heat, electric lights, and a porcelain bath-tub." The poor bewildered creature would give me over at once into the hands of the omnipotent Polizei on the ground of insanity. But perhaps, after all, the best way of explaining myself is to follow the injunction in your letter: "Begin at the beginning and tell me all about it."

Mütterchen and I arrived at Munich late in the evening, and went directly to a hotel near the station, where we slept soundly after our long trip. Early the next morning I set out to look for a permanent abode. On my list were a number of well-recommended pensions, and I chose, naturally, the nearest at hand. It was not so easy to find as I had at first thought, for a German street has a queer fashion of changing its name every few blocks, so I deemed it wisest to inquire the way of a passer-by. Frankly, I had rather prided myself on my knowledge of the language, fondly imagining that I should have no trouble in understanding it or in making myself intelligible. With that sublime assurance born only of ignorance, I approached an honest-faced workman, and in a charmingly idiomatic sentence inquired the shortest way to Barer-strasse. He stared at me hard for a moment, and then burst into a flood of harsh-sounding words, not one of which fell familiarly on my ear. I was puzzled for a moment, but, thinking I must have mistaken his nationality, I bowed my thanks and made my way to a policeman on the corner, who, by the bye, wears a gleaming helmet like those of the soldier chorus in "Faust." His answer was fully as incomprehensible as the other, and I realized suddenly, with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, that this strange-sounding tongue must be the Bavarian dialect, and to understand it would require a totally new vocabulary. My enthusiasm was distinctly dampened, but I bravely opened the Red Book, which I had hitherto scorned, and unfolding the map of Munich to its full extent, I laboriously studied the tangle of black and red lines for a quarter of an hour before I found the desired street.

To reach the pension took but a short time, and I was relieved to discover that the landlady spoke north German and a little English. She was a large, red-cheeked, breezy person, and I felt very much like a small boat in tow of a big ship, as I meekly followed at her heels, while she showed me her vacant rooms, accompanying her smiles, bows, and gesticulations with a torrent of volubility. Finally she ushered me into a stuffy room, over-crowded with furniture, which she proudly called the "salon," and pointing out as pièce de résistance a decrepit, yellow-keyed piano, announced that it was "for the use of the guests." But the change, dear Cecilia, when I, like the stage villain, disclosed my identity! The alluring smile melted in a trice; the persuasive tones disappeared for the sharp rasp of the up-to-date business woman. I learned that a music student was regarded as an incubus, and shunned accordingly. Practice hours must be limited from, perhaps, nine-thirty to twelve and from four to seven. The only possible room was up four flights. Did I use the loud pedal much? Did I play any "pieces" or only "five-finger exercises"?

I cannot tell you all the questions she hurled at me. Suffice it to say, I left, downcast and disheartened, only to meet practically the same experience at each pension in turn. If there were already a music student in possession, that was the signal for me instantly to withdraw. If there were none, I found the rooms so undesirable, or practice hours so limited, that to remain was impossible.

At length I chanced to encounter, returning from her mornings work at the Pinakothek, an art student whom I had met on the steamer, and she told me of a house where she thought there were no Musikers as yet. With an anxious heart I hurried up the narrow stairs, and interviewed the landlady, who proved to be a most genial creature. An hour later we had left the hotel and were ensconced as proud possessors of two adjoining rooms. The larger we use for a sleeping-room, and the smaller is dignified by the name of "salon." It is there that I am to work, and I have already succeeded in making it a little more homelike, by placing a screen to mitigate the depressing hideousness of the stove, and by setting out my photographs on desk and table. I have, too, tacked on the wall the Glee Club pictures and several snapshots which you took that memorable spring day in the Yard.

The pension itself is small. Indeed, the Frau Baronin—which is the title with which I am to address my landlady—tells me she seldom has more than ten guests in the house. She also says that most of her pensionnaires are German, for which we are grateful. I cannot understand why so many Americans come over here expecting to see something of the life and then establish themselves in one of those hotel-like boarding-houses where the majority of the inmates speak only the English tongue.

The view from our windows is charming, for Maximilians-Platz is one of the most attractive spots in the city. As I look down on the waving tops, and green lawns dotted with flowers, I forget that I am in the city at all. Leaning out on the ledge, with the warm breath of the wind on my forehead, the twittering of