The chief business of Munich is dressing-up. In Munich, it is always somebody's holiday, and everybody else who has nothing better to do—and most of them have—join in. For the Christian, there are carnivals and saints' days. Munich is the paradise of saints. They swarm there, and each one has his own particular day, winding up with a dance in the evening. For the more worldly-minded, there are festivals organized by the guilds; and pageants by the students; and fancy-dress balls gotten up by the artists. Most folk walk to these glittering balls. There would not be sufficient cabs for a quarter of them. On rainy nights, one passes gods and goddesses in mackintoshes, fairies in goloshes, Socrates and Brunhilda under one umbrella. On fine nights, the dancers overflow into the streets. On one's way home to bed, one may be seized by a gang of Knight Templars and carried off to take part in a witch's sabbath.
German beer is seductive. The trouble is that it does not go to one's head: the consequence being that one never knows when one has had enough. I took a Scotchman to the Hofbrau one night.
“See that solemn old Johnny at the table opposite,” he said, “looks like a professor. He's had seven of these mugs of beer—'masses,' or whatever you call them. I've counted them.”
The Fräulien was just that moment passing.
“How many beers has my friend had up to now?” I asked her.
“Six,” she answered.
“You're one behind him,” I said. “You'd better have another.”
I ordered it, and he drank it. But he stuck out to the end it was only his third: which was absurd.
But a little way outside Munich, there is a far-famed brewery, where they make it different. They brew for a year. Then they placard Munich, announcing they are ready; and all the town pours forth and climbs the hill; and in a week, the house is drunk dry and the garden is closed, till the following spring. They told me it was strong—“ heftig.” But they did not say how heftig. Everybody was going. We hired a carriage, and I took my girls and their governess. My wife had left for England, the day before, to see a sick friend. Our governess, who was from Dresden, said “Be careful.” She had heard about this beer. I claim that I was careful. The girls had each one mug. I explained to them that this was not the ordinary beer that they were used to; and that anyhow they were not going to have any more. It was a warm afternoon. They answered haughtily, and drank it off. Our governess, a sweet, high-minded lady—I cannot conceive of her having done anything wrong in all her life—had one and part of another. I myself, on the principle of safety first, had decided to limit myself to three. I was toying with the third, when my eldest girl, saying she wanted to go home, suddenly got up, turned round and sat down again. The younger swept a glass from the table to make room for her head, gave a sigh of contentment and went to sleep. I looked at Fräulein Lankau.
“Whatever we do,” she said, “we must avoid attracting attention. You remain here, as though nothing had happened. I will lead the poor dears away, and find the carriage. A little later, you follow quietly.”