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 overflow1 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 rhythmic2 chant of the chorus. Mellowed3 by the distance, the wailing4 cadence5 of the plaintive6 songs, mingled7 with the shrill8 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. A conscientious9 man who really felt that his words would carry weight and influence with them would be almost afraid to speak at all. It is the man who knows that it will not make an ounce of difference to anyone what he says, that can grow eloquent10 and vehement11 and positive. It will not make any difference to anybody or anything what I say about the Ober-Ammergau Passion Play. So I shall just say what I want to.
But what do I want to say? What can I say that has not been said, and said much better, already? (An author must always pretend to think that every other author writes better than he himself does. He does not really think so, you know, but it looks well to talk as though he did.) What can I say that the reader does not know, or that, not knowing, he cares to know? It is easy enough to talk about nothing, like I have been doing in this diary hitherto. It is when one is confronted with the task of writing about something, that one wishes one were a respectable well-to-do sweep—a sweep with a comfortable business of his own, and a pony—instead of an author.
B. says:
“Well, why not begin by describing Ober-Ammergau.”
I say it has been described so often.
He says:
“So has the Oxford12 and Cambridge Boat Race and the Derby Day, but people go on describing them all the same, and apparently13 find other people to read their descriptions. Say that the little village, clustered round its mosque-domed church, nestles in the centre of a valley, surrounded by great fir-robed hills, which stand, with the cross-crowned Kofel for their chief, like stern, strong sentinels guarding its old-world peace from the din14 and clamour of the outer world. Describe how the square, whitewashed15 houses are sheltered beneath great overhanging gables, and are encircled by carved wooden balconies and verandahs, where, in the cool of the evening, peasant wood-carver and peasant farmer sit to smoke the long Bavarian pipe, and chat about the cattle and the Passion Play and village politics; and how, in gaudy16 colours above the porch, are painted glowing figures of saints and virgins17 and such-like good folk, which the rains have sadly mutilated, so that a legless angel on one side of the road looks dejectedly across at a headless Madonna on the other, while at an exposed corner some unfortunate saint, more cruelly dealt with by the weather than he ever was even by the heathen, has been deprived of everything that he could call his own, with the exception of half a head and a pair of extra-sized feet.
“Explain how all the houses are numbered according to the date they were built, so that number sixteen comes next to number forty-seven, and there is no number one because it has been pulled down. Tell how unsophisticated visitors, informed that their lodgings18 are at number fifty-three, go wandering for days and days round fifty-two, under the not unreasonable19 impression that their house must be next door, though, as a matter of fact, it is half a mile off at the other end of the village, and are discovered one sunny morning, sitting on the doorstep of number eighteen, singing pathetic snatches of nursery rhymes, and trying to plat their toes into door-mats, and are taken up and carried away screaming, to end their lives in the madhouse at Munich.
“Talk about the weather. People who have stayed here for any length of time tell me that it rains at Ober-Ammergau three days out of every four, the reason that it does not rain on the fourth day being that every fourth day is set apart for a deluge20. They tell me, also, that while it will be pouring with rain just in the village the sun will be shining brightly all round about, and that the villagers, when the water begins to come in through their roofs, snatch up their children and hurry off to the nearest field, where they sit and wait until the storm is over.”
“Do you believe them—the persons that you say tell you these tales?” I ask.
“Personally I do not,” he replies. “I think people exaggerate to me because I look young and innocent, but no doubt there is a ground-work of truth in their statements. I have myself left Ober-Ammergau under a steady drenching21 rain, and found a cloudless sky the other side of the Kofel.
“Then,” he continues, “you can comment upon the hardihood of the Bavarian peasant. How he or she walks about bare-headed and bare-footed through the fiercest showers, and seems to find the rain only pleasantly cooling. How, during the performance of the Passion Play, they act and sing and stand about upon the uncovered stage without taking the slightest notice of the downpour of water that is soaking their robes and running from their streaming hair, to make great pools upon the boards; and how the audience, in the cheaper, unroofed portion of the theatre, sit with equal stoicism, watching them, no one ever dreaming even of putting up an umbrella—or, if he does dream of doing so, experiencing a very rude awakening22 from the sticks of those behind.”
B. stops to relight his pipe at this point, and I hear the two ladies in the next room fidgeting about and muttering worse than ever. It seems to me they are listening at the door (our room and theirs are connected by a door); I do wish that they would either get into bed again or else go downstairs. They worry me.
“And what shall I say after I have said all that?” I ask B. when at last he has started his pipe again.
“Oh! well, after that,” he replies, “you can give the history of the Passion Play; how it came to be played.”
“Oh, but so many people have done that already,” I say again.
“So much the better for you,” is his reply. Having previously23 heard precisely24 the same story from half a dozen other sources, the public will be tempted25 to believe you when you repeat the account. Tell them that during the thirty year’s war a terrible plague (as if half a dozen different armies, marching up and down their country, fighting each other about the Lord only knows what, and living on them while doing it, was not plague enough) swept over Bavaria, devastating26 each town and hamlet. Of all the highland27 villages, Ober-Ammergau by means of a strictly28 enforced quarantine alone kept, for a while, the black foe29 at bay. No soul was allowed to leave the village; no living thing to enter it.
“But one dark night Caspar Schuchler, an inhabitant of Ober-Ammergau, who had been working in the plague-stricken neighbouring village of Eschenlohe, creeping low on his belly30, passed the drowsy31 sentinels, and gained his home, and saw what for many a day he had been hungering for—a sight of his wife and bairns. It was a selfish act to do, and he and his fellow-villagers paid dearly for it. Three days after he had entered his house he and all his family lay dead, and the plague was raging through the valley, and nothing seemed able to stay its course.
“When human means fail, we feel it is only fair to give Heaven a chance. The good people who dwelt by the side of the Ammer vowed32 that, if the plague left them, they would, every ten years, perform a Passion Play. The celestial33 powers seem to have at once closed with this offer. The plague disappeared as if by magic, and every recurring34 tenth year since, the Ober-Ammergauites have kept their promise and played their Passion Play. They act it to this day as a pious35 observance. Before each performance all the characters gather together on the stage around their pastor36, and, kneeling, pray for a blessing37 upon the work then about to commence. The profits that are made, after paying the performers a wage that just compensates38 them for their loss of time—wood-carver Maier, who plays the Christ, only receives about fifty pounds for the whole of the thirty or so performances given during the season, to say nothing of the winter’s rehearsals—is put aside, part for the temporal benefit of the community, and the rest for the benefit of the Church. From burgomaster down to shepherd lad, from the Mary and the Jesus down to the meanest super, all work for the love of their religion, not for money. Each one feels that he is helping39 forward the cause of Christianity.”
“And I could also speak,” I add, “of grand old Daisenberger, the gentle, simple old priest, ‘the father of the valley,’ who now lies in silence among his children that he loved so well. It was he, you know, that shaped the rude burlesque40 of a coarser age into the impressive reverential drama that we saw yesterday. That is a portrait of him over the bed. What a plain, homely41, good face it is! How pleasant, how helpful it is to come across a good face now and then! I do not mean a sainted face, suggestive of stained glass and marble tombs, but a rugged42 human face that has had the grit43, and rain, and sunshine of life rubbed into it, and that has gained its expression, not by looking up with longing44 at the stars, but by looking down with eyes full of laughter and love at the human things around it.”
“Yes,” assented45 B. “You can put in that if you like. There is no harm in it. And then you can go on to speak of the play itself, and give your impressions concerning it. Never mind their being silly. They will be all the better for that. Silly remarks are generally more interesting than sensible ones.”
“But what is the use of saying anything about it at all?” I urge. “The merest school-boy must know all about the Ober-Ammergau Passion Play by this time.”
“What has that to do with you?” answers B. “You are not writing for cultured school-boys. You are writing for mere46 simple men and women. They will be glad of a little information on the subject, and then when the schoolboy comes home for his holiday they will be able, so far as this topic, at all events, is concerned, to converse47 with him on his own level and not appear stupid.
“Well,” I reply, after musing49 for a while, “I think that a play of eighteen acts and some forty scenes, which commences at eight o’clock in the morning, and continues, with an interval50 of an hour and a half for dinner, until six o’clock in the evening, is too long. I think the piece wants cutting. About a third of it is impressive and moving, and what the earnest student of the drama at home is for ever demanding that a play should be—namely, elevating; but I consider that the other two-thirds are tiresome51.”
“Quite so,” answers B. “But then we must remember that the performance is not intended as an entertainment, but as a religious service. To criticise52 any part of it as uninteresting, is like saying that half the Bible might very well have been omitted, and that the whole story could have been told in a third of the space.”
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1
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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2
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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3
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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4
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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5
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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6
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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7
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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8
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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9
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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10
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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11
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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12
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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13
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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14
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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15
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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17
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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18
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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19
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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20
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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21
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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22
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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23
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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24
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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25
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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26
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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27
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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28
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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29
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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30
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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31
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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32
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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33
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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34
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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35
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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36
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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37
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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38
compensates
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的第三人称单数 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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39
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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40
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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41
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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42
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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43
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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44
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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45
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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47
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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48
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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49
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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50
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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51
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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52
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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