those were the last days of the munich opera-house in all its glory. mottl, prince of conductors, was alive; fay, preuse-matzenauer, bosetti, bender, feinhals, the incomparable fassbender, sang every week, and, now and again, knote and morena. to-day death and disaster have overtaken that great company, and few are left to make the pilgrimage to munich worth while.
“die walküre” was given on monday night, and included nearly all of the staff. the hotel portier had reserved seats for the english party in the first row of the balkon, and they had a full view of a typical wagnerian audience. in these days, owing no doubt to the american residents, the entire auditorium, as well as the balkon and loges, was well dressed. no more did the hausfrau come in her street costume of serviceable stuff turned in at the neck with a bit of tulle, but made shift to wear a demitoilette of sorts, and light in color even if of mean material. the fashionable müncheners outdressed the americans and occupied the first row of the balkon and the loges. even the royalties presented a far better appearance than in the old days, and the large number of officers present alone would have given the house a brilliant appearance. the upper tiers were picturesque with the girl students in their secessionist costumes and bazaar heads, the men with their untidy hair and flowing ties. but the crowning grace of the “hof” at all times is that no one is allowed to enter after the overture begins, nor dares to speak until the curtain goes down.
julia had carefully arrayed herself in her most becoming gown, a white liberty satin under pale green chiffon, so casual in effect that it looked as if held together by the sheaf of lilies-of-the-valley on the corsage. ishbel was resplendent in black velvet and english pink; and the party was the cynosure of the audience below, standing with its back to the stage and frankly inspecting the balkon until the last bell rang and the lights went out.
the tenor was wrenching the sword from the tree, and fay was standing with her famous arms rigidly aloft, in one of the prescribed wagnerian attitudes, when tay saw julia move restlessly, sit forward with a frown, and then sink back with an expression of sadness so profound that he longed to ask what ailed her now, but had no desire to be hissed down or put out by the fat doorkeeper. when they were in the buffet, however, during the first pause, and he had walked up two trains and nearly lost his cufflinks in a determined effort to procure ices, and they were alone at a table in a corner, he referred to the incident, if only to prove that no performance, no matter how great, could divert his attention from her.
“oh, i was only thinking,” said julia. “i wonder where the darks are?”
“engaged in a wrestling match, probably. aren’t you always thinking? what struck you so suddenly in the middle of that alleged dramatic scene where the fat man, purple in the face, was struggling to get a tin sword out of a paper tree and trying to sing at the same time? never was so excited in my life.”
julia laughed. “i was sure you were not musical.”
“you insult san francisco. we are the most musical people in america. the very newsboys whistle the opera tunes. but i like to see a decent sense of the proprieties observed. those two could have said all they had to say in five minutes. set to music, it should take about fifteen. however— tell me what struck you all of a heap.”
“oh—well—i—”
“shoot!”
“what?”
“more slang. fire away.”
“do you expect to know all my thoughts?”
“i don’t, but i’d like to.”
“i wonder! however—i don’t mind telling you. it occurred to me rather forcibly how much simpler women’s problems were in those days. two young people, isolated from the world, meet and spontaneously fall in love. they are creatures of instinct, and ignorant of any law except might. a sleeping potion in the savage husband’s nightly horn settles that question, and they run away into the forest and are happy—would be happy forever more if let alone. but in these complicated days—all our obstacles are inside of us! any one can find courage to defy the primitive and obvious?—”
“plenty of primitive people right in the midst of civilization,” interposed tay, grimly.
“yes, i know, and in your country divorce is easy. but for the highly civilized, life, even with divorce, is anything but easy. women question that condition called happiness when it would appear to offer itself, examine it on all sides. they know men too well—life—above all, themselves. or they have assumed impersonal duties and responsibilities. or their brains have become so complex that love alone cannot satisfy. they would have love plus far more! if the choice must be made, they dare not cast for love, in their fear of disaster. nothing is so dishonest as the so-called psychological novel, which leaves two thinking moderns in each other’s arms at the end of a forced situation, with their natures unchanged, all their problems—their inner problems—unsolved. they never can be solved by love, marriage, children, the good old way. the sort for whom all problems can be treated by the conventional recipe are not worth writing about. but it is a terrible proposition; for these highly civilized women have the automatic desires of their sex for love and happiness—intensified by imagination! but—they know that a greater need still is to fill their lives and use their brains.”
tay had turned pale. “the modern man, unless he is an ass, gives his wife her head.”
“that is beside the question. the real trouble doesn’t sound particularly attractive when put into plain english: it is the raising of the ego to the nth power that makes these women want to stand alone, resent the idea of finding completion in a man.”
“then let us pray that they will all die old maids, and their race die with them.”
“no hope! children of the most commonplace parents are the products of their times. heredity is modified from generation to generation. otherwise, we should all be siegmunds and sieglindes. their little brains are impregnated by forces seen and unseen. hadji sadr? would explain it by the theory of reincarnation, or by planetary conditions at birth—the only reasonable explanation of shakespeare, by the way, if he wasn’t bacon. but although, no doubt, many of the great do return to complete their work, there are not enough to go round. and there is a simpler explanation. in these vibrating days the very air is flashing and humming with secrets for those that have the magnet in their brains. bright minds learn from life, not from their old-fashioned parents. oh, the breed will increase, not diminish! happiness, old style, is about done for. women will be happier in consequence—or in another way. i don’t know about men. they have reigned too long. and then they are simple ingenuous creatures, the most tyrannical of them, and pathetically dependent upon women. women are growing more independent every day, more indifferent to that sex ‘management’ of men, which so far has constituted a large part of man’s happiness.”
tay was angry, therefore more jocular than ever. “don’t forget the adaptability of even the male animal, also that man is born of woman; also brought up by her. i don’t worry one little bit about the future happiness of man. as for the home—apartment-houses and the decline and fall of servants have about relegated it to the last stronghold of the old-fashioned love story—the country town. i said just now that i’d like to know all your thoughts. well, i shouldn’t. my idea of happiness is a lifetime with a woman who would always be more or less of a mystery, who would have her own life—inner and outer—as i should have mine. and i’m not so sure that mine would be simple and ingenuous. marriage with her would be a sort of intense personal partnership, with separations of irregular recurrence and length. then, my lady, there would be a constant ache; passion would never wear itself out; and neither would be looking for novel affinities elsewhere.”
julia smiled. “it sounds very enticing. but that isn’t the point. the subtlest enemy—it is that desire to find our highest completion alone.”
“a bully good phase for the next world. something to look forward to. the fool’s paradise in this life is the grandest failure on record. men and women are not constituted to perfect by their lonesomes. otherwise the mutual attraction of sex would not be what it is. no woman that a man wants was ever intended to complete herself; nor can she become so highly developed in this life as not to find it quite safe to follow her instincts on her own plane.”
the second bell had rung and the buffet was nearly empty. he leaned across the table and brought his face close to hers. “if you are dead sure that i never could make you happy, that you never could love me, that you haven’t a human instinct that i could gratify, then chuck me. but if you are only psychologizing on general principles, then chuck that as fast as you can. i don’t want to hear any more of it, and i shan’t pay any more attention to it hereafter than if you were speculating about possible grandchildren inheriting a taste for drink from your brother. switch off! you are eighteen.”
julia sprang to her feet with a laugh, her seriousness routed. “right you are! come, or we’ll be locked out.”
both dark and tay stolidly refused to remain for the last act, and the party went to the best of the restaurants for the supper, which was to take the place of dinner; the opera had begun at six o’clock. the meal was cooked by a chef, and they lingered over it until long after the wagnerites were in bed. dark and tay were in the best of spirits, for however they might love music, they loved dinner more; julia and ishbel, who were disposed to be sulky, soon recovered, and the party was so gay that even the yawning waiters smiled and felt sure of recompense. when they finally left the restaurant, munich might have been the tomb of its history. not a cab was on the rank. not a policeman was to be seen. when they reached the small paved square before the loggia, dark threw his arm about julia, and they waltzed until tilly must have longed to step down and join them. a delighted giggle did come from the sentry-boxes before the side portals of the palace as tay and ishbel followed the example of their companions. it is not often that the munich night is disturbed by anything more original than roistering students. the moon was out, the cold air crisp. they could have danced for an hour, but ishbel suddenly reminded them that they were to start for partenkirchen in a few hours, and they raced one another to their hotel.
