With a mug of beer before me, and a pipe in my mouth, I could sit
for hours contentedly, and watch the life that ebbs and flows into
and out of these old ale-kitchens.
The brawny peasant lads bring in their lasses to treat them to the
beloved nectar of Munich, together with a huge onion. How they
enjoy themselves! What splendid jokes they have! How they laugh
and roar and sing! At one table sit four old fellows, playing
cards. How full of character is each gnarled face. One is eager,
quick, vehement. How his eyes dance! You can read his every
thought upon his face. You know when he is going to dash down the
king with a shout of triumph on the queen. His neighbour looks
calm, slow, and dogged, but wears a confident expression. The game
proceeds, and you watch and wait for him to play the winning cards
that you feel sure he holds. He must intend to win. Victory is
written in his face. No! he loses. A seven was the highest card in
his hand. Everyone turns to him, surprised. He laughs - A difficult
man to deal with, that, in other matters besides cards. A man whose
thoughts lie a good deal below his skin.
Opposite, a cross-looking old woman clamours for sausages, gets
them, and seems crosser than ever. She scowls round on everyone,
with a malignant expression that is quite terrifying. A small dog
comes and sits down in front of her, and grins at her. Still, with
the same savage expression of hatred towards all living things, she
feeds him with sausage at the end of a fork, regarding him all the
while with an aspect of such concentrated dislike, that one wonders
it does not interfere with his digestion. In a corner, a stout old
woman talks incessantly to a solemn-looking man, who sits silent and
drinks steadily. It is evident that he can stand her conversation
just so long as he has a mug of beer in front of him. He has
brought her in here to give her a treat. He will let her have her
talk out while he drinks. Heavens! how she does talk! She talks
without movement, without expression; her voice never varies, it
flows on, and on, and on, like a great resistless river. Four young
artisans come clamping along in their hob-nailed boots, and seating
themselves at one of the rude wooden tables, call for beer. With
their arms round the waist of the utterly indifferent Fraulein, they
shout and laugh and sing. Nearly all the young folks here are
laughing - looking forward to life. All the old folks are talking,
remembering it.
What grand pictures some of these old, seared faces round us would
make, if a man could only paint them - paint all that is in them, all
the tragedy - and comedy that the great playwright, Life, has written
upon the withered skins! Joys and sorrows, sordid hopes and fears,
child-like strivings to be good, mean selfishness and grand
unselfishness, have helped to fashion these old wrinkled faces. The
curves of cunning and kindliness lurk round these fading eyes. The
lines of greed hover about these bloodless lips, that have so often
been tight-pressed in patient heroism.
SUNDAY, 25TH - CONTINUED
We Dine. - A Curious Dish. - "A Feeling of Sadness Comes O'er Me." -
The German Cigar. - The Handsomest Match in Europe. - "How Easy 'tis
for Friends to Drift Apart," especially in a place like Munich
Railway Station. - The Victim of Fate. - A Faithful Bradshaw. - Among
the Mountains. - Prince and Pauper. - A Modern Romance. - Arrival at
Oberau. - Wise and Foolish Pilgrims. - An Interesting Drive. - Ettal
and its Monastery. - We Reach the Goal of our Pilgrimage.
At one o'clock we turned into a restaurant for dinner. The Germans
themselves always dine in the middle of the day, and a very
substantial meal they make of it. At the hotels frequented by
tourists table d'hote is, during the season, fixed for about six or
seven, but this is only done to meet the views of foreign customers.
I mention that we had dinner, not because I think that the
information will prove exciting to the reader, but because I wish to
warn my countrymen, travelling in Germany, against undue indulgence
in Liptauer cheese.
I am fond of cheese, and of trying new varieties of cheese; so that
when I looked down the cheese department of the bill of fare, and
came across "liptauer garnit," an article of diet I had never before
heard of, I determined to sample it.
It was not a tempting-looking cheese. It was an unhealthy, sad-
looking cheese. It looked like a cheese that had seen trouble. In
appearance it resembled putty more than anything else. It even
tasted like putty - at least, like I should imagine putty would
taste. To this hour I am not positive that it was not putty. The
garnishing was even more remarkable than the cheese. All the way
round the plate were piled articles that I had never before seen at
a dinner, and that I do not ever want to see there again. There was
a little heap of split-peas, three or four remarkably small
potatoes - at least, I suppose they were potatoes; if not, they were
pea-nuts boiled soft, - some caraway-seeds, a very young-looking
fish, apparently of the stickleback breed, and some red paint. It
was quite a little dinner all to itself.
What the red paint was for, I could not understand. B. thought that
it was put there for suicidal purposes. His idea was that the
customer, after eating all the other things in the plate, would wish
he were dead, and that the restaurant people, knowing this, had
thoughtfully provided him with red paint for one, so that he could
poison himself off and get out of his misery.
