On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
The ground in the Ettal road trembled under the roll of carriage
wheels. The last evening train had arrived, and a flood of people and
vehicles poured into the village already almost crushed beneath the
tide of human beings. Horses half driven to death, dragging at a gallop
heavy landaus crowded with six or eight persons. Lumbering wagons
containing twenty or thirty travellers just as they had climbed in,
sometimes half clinging to the steps or the boxes of the wheels, swayed
to and fro; intoxicated, excited by the mad rush and the fear of being
left behind--raging and shrieking like a horde of unchained fiends come
to disturb the sacred drama rather than pious pilgrims who wished to
witness it, the frantic mob poured in. "_Sauve qui peut_" was the
motto, the prince lifted the countess on a small post by the roadside.
Just at that moment the fire-brigade marched by to watch the theatre.
It was said that several of the neighboring parishes, envious of
Ammergau, had threatened to ruin the Play by setting the theatre on
fire. Fire engines and strangers' carriages passed pell-mell. The
people of Ammergau themselves, alarmed and enraged by the cruel threat,
were completely disconcerted; passionate discussions, vehement
commands, and urgent entreaties were heard on all sides. Prompt and
energetic action was requisite, the fate of all Ammergau was at stake.
The bells now began to ring and at the same moment the first of the
twenty-five cannon shots which were to consecrate the morrow's festival
was discharged, and the musicians passed through the streets.
The air fairly quivered with the deafening uproar of all these mingling
waves of sound. Darkness was gathering, the countess grew giddy, she
felt as if she were stifling in the tumult. A pair of horses fell just
below them, causing a break in the line of carriages, which the prince
used to get his companion across, and she at last reached home, almost
fainting. Her soul was stirred to its inmost depths. What was the power
which produced such effects?
Was this the calm, petty doctrine, which had been inculcated so
theoretically and coldly at the school-room desk and from the pulpit,
and with which, when a child, she has been disgusted by an
incomprehensible school-catechism? Was this the doctrine which, from
earliest childhood, had been nothing more than a wearisome dead letter,
to which, as it had become the religion of the state, an official visit
to church was due from time to time, just as, on certain days, cards
were left on ambassadors and government officials?
The wind still bore from the village the noise of the throngs of
people, the ringing of the bells, and the thunder of the cannon,
blended with occasional bursts of music. The countess had had similar
experiences when tidings of great victories had been received during
the last war, but those were _facts_. For the first time in her life
she asked herself if Christianity was a fact? And if not, if it was
only an idea, what inherent power, after the lapse of nearly two
thousand years, produced such an effect?
Why did all these people come--why did she _herself_? The human race is
homesick, it no longer knows for what; it is only a vague impulse, but
one which instinctively draws it in the direction where it perceives a
sign, a vestige of what it has lost and forever seeks. Such, she knows
it now, such is the feeling of all the throngs that have flocked hither
to-day, she realized that at this moment she was a microcosm of weary,
wandering mankind seeking for salvation.
And as when, deceived and disappointed in everything, we seek the
picture of some dead friend, long since forgotten, and press it weeping
to our lips, she clung to the image of the Redeemer. Now that
everything had deluded her, no system which had boastfully promised a
victory over calamity and death had stood the test, after one makeshift
had supplanted another without supplying what was lacking, after all
the vaunted remedies of philosophy and materialism proved mere
palliatives which make the evil endurable for the moment but do not
heal it, suffering, cheated humanity was suddenly seeking the image of
the lost friend so long forgotten. But a dead friend cannot come forth
from a picture, a painted heart can no longer beat. Could _Christ_ rise
again in His image? Could _His_ word live once more on the lips of a
stranger? And would the drops of artificial blood, trickling from the
brow of the personified Messiah, possess redeeming power?
That was the miracle which attracted the throngs from far and near,
_that_ must be the marvel, and tomorrow it would be revealed.
"Of what are you dreaming, Countess Madeleine?" asked the prince after
a pause which she had spent in the wild-grape arbor near the house
gazing into vacancy, with her head resting on her hand. She looked up,
glancing at him as if she had entirely forgotten his presence. "I don't
know what is the cause of my emotion, the tumult in the village has
stirred me deeply! I feel that only potent things could send such a
storm before them, and it seems as if it was the portent of some
wonderful event!"
"Good Heavens! What extravagant fancies, my dear Countess! I believe
you add to all your rich gifts the dangerous one of poesy! I admire and
honor you for it--but I can perceive in this storm nothing save a proof
that curiosity is the greatest and most universal trait in human
character, and that these throngs desire nothing more than the
satisfaction of their curiosity. The affair is fashionable just now,
and that explains the whole."
"Prince, I pity you for what you have just said," replied the countess,
rising. Her face wore the same cold, lifeless expression as on the day
of her arrival.
"But, my dearest friend, for Heavens's sake tell me, did _you_ and _I_
come from any other motive than curiosity?"
"You, no! I, yes!"
"Don't say that, _chere amie_. You, the scholar, superior to us all in
learning; you, the disciple of Schopenhauer, the proud philosopher, the
believer in Nirvana."
"Yes, I, Prince!" cried the countess, "The philosopher who was not
happy for an hour, not content for a moment. What is this Nirvana? A
stone idol, which the fruitless speculation of our times has conjured
from the rubbish of archaeological excavations, and which stares at us
with its vacant eyes until we fall into an intellectual hypnotism which
we mistake for peace." An expression of bitter sarcasm rested on her
lips. "I came here to bring pessimism and Christianity face to face. I
thought it would be very novel to see the stone idol Nirvana, with his
hands on his lap and the silence of eternal death on his lips, watch
the martyr, dripping with sweat and blood, bear His own cross to the
place of execution and cheerfully take up the work where Buddha
faltered; on the boundary of non-existence. I wanted to see how the two
would treat each other, if for nothing more than a comparative study of
religion."
"You are irresistible in your charming mockery, dearest Countess, yet
logically I cannot confess myself conquered!" replied the prince. The
countess smiled: "Of course, when did a man ever acknowledge that to a
woman, where intellectual matters were concerned? A sunny curl, the
seductive arch of an upper lip, a pair of blue eyes sparkling with
tears will make you lords of creation the dupes of the most ordinary
coquette or even the yielding toy of the dullest ignorance. We women
all know it! But, if we assail your dry logic, you are as unconquerable
as Antaeus so long as he stood upon the earth! You, too, could only be
vanquished by whoever had the power to lift you from the ground where
_you_ stand."
"You might have that power, Countess. Not by your arguments, but by
your eyes. You know that _one_ loving glance would not only lift me
from the earth but into heaven, and then you could do with me what you
would."
"You have forfeited the loving glance! Perhaps it might have _rewarded_
your assent, but it would never _purchase_ it, I scorn bribed judges,
for I am sure of my cause!"
"Countess, pardon my frankness: it is a pity that you have so much
intellect."
"Why?"
"Because it leads you into sophistical by-ways; your tendency to
mysticism gives an apparently logical foundation and thereby
strengthens you the more in this dangerous course. A more simple,
temperate judgment would _guard_ you from it."
"Well, Prince--" she looked at him pityingly, contemptuously--"may
Heaven preserve me from _such_ a judgment as well as from all who may
seek to supply its place to me. Excuse me for this evening. I should
like to devote an hour to these worthy people and soothe my nerves--I
have been too much excited by the scenes we have witnessed. Goodnight,
Prince!"
Prince Emil turned pale. "Good-night, Countess. Perhaps to-morrow you
will be somewhat more humane in this cat and mouse game; to-day I am
sent home with a bleeding wound." With lips firmly compressed, he bowed
his farewell and left the garden. Madeleine looked after him: "He is
angry. I cannot help him, he deserved it. Oh, foolish man, who deemed
yourself so clever! Do you suppose this glowing heart desires no other
revelations than those of pure reason? Do you imagine that the
arguments of all the philosophical systems of humanity could offer it
that for which it longs? Shall I find it? Heaven knows! But one thing
is certain, I shall no longer seek it in _you_."
The sound of moans and low sobs came from the chamber above the
countess' room. It was Josepha. Countess Wildenau passed through the
little trap-door and entered it. The girl was kneeling beside the bed,
with her face buried in the pillows, to shut out the thunder of the
cannon and the sound of the bells, which summoned the actors in the
sacred Play from which she alone, the sinner, the outcast, was shut
out.
Mary Magdalene, too, had sinned and erred, yet she had been suffered to
remain near the Lord. She was permitted to touch His divine body and to
wipe His feet with her hair! But _she_ was not allowed to render this
service to His _image_! She grasped the mass of wonderful silken locks
which fell in loosened masses over her shoulders. What did she care for
this beautiful hair now? She would fain cut it off and throw it into
the Ammer or, better still, bury it in the earth, the earth on which
the Passion Theatre stood. With a hasty movement, she snatched a pair
of shears which lay beside the bed, and just as the countess' foot
touched the threshold, a sharp, cutting sound was heard and the most
beautiful red hair that ever adorned a girl's head fell like a dying
flame at her feet. "Josepha, what are you doing?" cried the countess,
"Oh, what a pity to lose that magnificent hair!"
"What do I care for it?" sobbed Josepha, "It can never be seen in the
Play! When the performance is over, I will slip into the theatre before
we leave and bury it under the stage, where the cross stands. There I
will leave it, there it shall stay, since I am no longer able to make
it serve Him." She threw herself into the countess' arms and hid her
tear-stained face upon her bosom. Alas, she was not even allowed to
appear among the populace, she alone was banished from the cross, yet
she knew that the _real_ Saviour would have suffered her to be at His
feet as well as Mary Magdalene.
"Console yourself, Josepha, your belief does not deceive you. The real
Christ would not have punished you so cruelly. Men are always more
severe than God. Whence should they obtain divine magnanimity, they are
so petty. They are like a servant who is arrogant and avaricious for
his master because he does not understand his wishes and turns from the
door the poor whom his master would gladly have welcomed and
refreshed." She kissed the young girl's brow. "Be calm, Josepha, gather