"The only character poorly played was that of Judas. The part of
Judas is really THE part of the piece, so far as acting is
concerned; but the exemplary householder who essayed it seemed to
have no knowledge or experience of the ways and methods of bad men.
There seemed to be no side of his character sufficiently in sympathy
with wickedness to enable him to understand and portray it. His
amateur attempts at scoundrelism quite irritated me. It sounds
conceited to say so, but I am convinced I could have given a much
more truthful picture of the blackguard myself.
"'Dear, dear me,' I kept on saying under my breath, 'he is doing it
all wrong. A downright unmitigated villain would never go on like
that; he would do so and so, he would look like this, and speak like
that, and act like the other. I know he would. My instinct tells
me so.'
"This actor was evidently not acquainted with even the rudiments of
knavery. I wanted to get up and instruct him in them. I felt that
there were little subtleties of rascaldom, little touches of
criminality, that I could have put that man up to, which would have
transformed his Judas from woodenness into breathing life. As it
was, with no one in the village apparently who was worth his salt as
a felon to teach him, his performance was unconvincing, and Judas
became a figure to laugh rather than to shudder at.
"With that exception, the whole company, from Maier down to the
donkey, seemed to be fitted to their places like notes into a
master's melody. It would appear as though, on the banks of the
Ammer, the histrionic artist grew wild."
"They are real actors, all of them," murmurs B. enthusiastically,
"the whole village full; and they all live happily together in one
small valley, and never try to kill each other. It is marvellous!"
At this point, we hear a sharp knock at the door that separates the
before-mentioned ladies' room from our own. We both start and turn
pale, and then look at each other. B. is the first to recover his
presence of mind. Eliminating, by a strong effort, all traces of
nervousness from his voice, he calls out in a tone of wonderful
coolness:
"Yes, what is it?"
"Are you in bed?" comes a voice from the other side of the door.
"Yes," answers B. "Why?"
"Oh! Sorry to disturb you, but we shall be so glad when you get up.
We can't go downstairs without coming through your room. This is
the only door. We have been waiting here for two hours, and our
train goes at three."
Great Scott! So that is why the poor old souls have been hanging
round the door, terrifying us out of our lives.
"All right, we'll be out in five minutes. So sorry. Why didn't you
call out before?"
FRIDAY, 30TH, OR SATURDAY, I AM NOT SURE WHICH
Troubles of a Tourist Agent. - His Views on Tourists. - The English
Woman Abroad. - And at Home. - The Ugliest Cathedral in Europe. - Old
Masters and New. - Victual-and-Drink-Scapes. - The German Band. - A
"Beer Garden." - Not the Women to Turn a Man's Head. - Difficulty of
Dining to Music. - Why one should Keep one's Mug Shut.
I think myself it is Saturday. B. says it is only Friday; but I am
positive I have had three cold baths since we left Ober-Ammergau,
which we did on Wednesday morning. If it is only Friday, then I
have had two morning baths in one day. Anyhow, we shall know to-
morrow by the shops being open or shut.
We travelled from Oberau with a tourist agent, and he told us all
his troubles. It seems that a tourist agent is an ordinary human
man, and has feelings just like we have. This had never occurred to
me before. I told him so.
"No," he replied, "it never does occur to you tourists. You treat
us as if we were mere Providence, or even the Government itself. If
all goes well, you say, what is the good of us, contemptuously; and
if things go wrong, you say, what is the good of us, indignantly. I
work sixteen hours a day to fix things comfortably for you, and you
cannot even look satisfied; while if a train is late, or a hotel
proprietor overcharges, you come and bully ME about it. If I see
after you, you mutter that I am officious; and if I leave you alone,
you grumble that I am neglectful. You swoop down in your hundreds
upon a tiny village like Ober-Ammergau without ever letting us know
even that you are coming, and then threaten to write to the Times
because there is not a suite of apartments and a hot dinner waiting
ready for each of you.
"You want the best lodgings in the place, and then, when at a
tremendous cost of trouble, they have been obtained for you, you
object to pay the price asked for them. You all try and palm
yourselves off for dukes and duchesses, travelling in disguise. You
have none of you ever heard of a second-class railway carriage -
didn't know that such things were made. You want a first-class
Pullman car reserved for each two of you. Some of you have seen an
omnibus in the distance, and have wondered what it was used for. To
suggest that you should travel in such a plebeian conveyance, is to
give you a shock that takes you two days to recover from. You
expect a private carriage, with a footman in livery, to take you
through the mountains. You, all of you, must have the most
expensive places in the theatre.
