I want to be
roused in the morning, not lulled off to sleep again."
B. translated the essential portions of this speech to the man, and
he laughed and promised upon his sacred word of honour that he would
come up himself and have us both out; and as he was a stalwart and
determined-looking man, I felt satisfied, and wished him "Good-
night," and made haste to get off my boots before I fell asleep.
TUESDAY, THE 27TH
A Pleasant Morning. - What can one Say about the Passion Play? - B.
Lectures. - Unreliable Description of Ober-Ammergau. - Exaggerated
Description of its Weather. - Possibly Untruthful Account of how the
Passion Play came to be Played. - A Good Face. - The Cultured
Schoolboy and his Ignorant Relations.
I am lying in bed, or, to speak more truthfully, I am sitting up on
a green satin, lace-covered pillow, writing these notes. A green
satin, lace-covered bed is on the floor beside me. It is about
eleven o'clock in the morning. B. is sitting up in his bed a few
feet off, smoking a pipe. We have just finished a light repast of -
what do you think? you will never guess - coffee and rolls. We
intend to put the week straight by stopping in bed all day, at all
events until the evening. Two English ladies occupy the bedroom
next to ours. They seem to have made up their minds to also stay
upstairs all day. We can hear them walking about their room,
muttering. They have been doing this for the last three-quarters of
an hour. They seem troubled about something.
It is very pleasant here. An overflow performance is being given in
the theatre to-day for the benefit of those people who could not
gain admittance yesterday, and, through the open windows, we can
hear the rhythmic chant of the chorus. Mellowed by the distance,
the wailing cadence of the plaintive songs, mingled with the shrill
Haydnistic strains of the orchestra, falls with a mournful sweetness
on our ears.
We ourselves saw the play yesterday, and we are now discussing it.
I am explaining to B. the difficulty I experience in writing an
account of it for my diary. I tell him that I really do not know
what to say about it.
He smokes for a while in silence, and then, taking the pipe from his
lips, he says:
"Does it matter very much what you say about it?"
I find much relief in that thought. It at once lifts from my
shoulders the oppressive feeling of responsibility that was weighing
me down. After all, what does it matter what I say? What does it
matter what any of us says about anything? Nobody takes much notice
of it, luckily for everybody. This reflection must be of great
comfort to editors and critics.
