On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
without heeding the time which is far beyond the limit our easily
wearied nerves are accustomed to bear.
What is it, for whose sake the highest as well as the lowest, the
richest and the poorest, prince and peasant, would sleep on a layer of
straw, without a murmur, if no bed could be had? Why will the most
pampered endure hunger and thirst, the most delicate heat and cold, the
most timid fearlessly undertake the hard journey across the Ettal
mountain? Is it mere curiosity to hear a number of poor wood-carvers,
peasants, and wood-cutters repeat under the open sky, exposed to sun
and rain, in worse German than is heard at school the same old story
which has already been told a thousand times, as the enemies of the
Passion Play say? Would this bring people every ten years from half the
inhabited world, from far and near, from South and North, from the
mountains and the valleys, from palaces and huts, across sea and land?
Certainly not? What is it then? A miracle?
Whoever has seen the Passion Play understands it, but it is difficult
to explain the mystery to those who have not.
The deity remains concealed from our earthly vision and unattainable,
like the veiled statue of Sais. Every attempt to raise this veil by
force is terribly avenged.
What is gained by those modern Socinians and Adorantes who, with
ill-feigned piety, seek to drag the mystery to light and make the God a
_human being_, in order to worship in the wretched puppet _themselves_?
Even if they beheld Him face to face, they would still see themselves
only, and He would cry: "You are like the spirit which you understand,
not me."
And what do the Pantheists gain who make man _God_, in order to embrace
in Him the unattainable? Sooner or later they will perceive that they
have mistaken the _effects_ for the _cause_, and the form for the
essence. Loathing and disappointment will be their lot, as it is the
lot of all who have nothing but--human beings.
But those to whom the visible is only the _symbol_ of the _invisible_
which teaches them from the effect to learn the cause, will, with
unerring logical correctness, pass from the form to the essence, from
the _illusion_ to the _truth_.
_That_ is the marvel of the modern Gethsemane, which this book will
narrate.
CHAPTER I.
A PHANTOM.
Solemn and lofty against the evening sky towers the Kofel, the
land-mark and protecting rock-bulwark of Oberammergau, bearing aloft
its solitary cross, like a threatening hand uplifted in menace to
confront an advancing foe with the symbol of victory.
Twilight is gathering, and the dark shadow of the mighty protector
stretches far across the quiet valley. The fading glow of sunset casts
a pallid light upon the simple cross which has stood on the mountain
peak for centuries, frequently renewed but always of the same size, so
that it can be seen a long distance off by the throngs who journey
upward from the valley, gazing longingly across the steep, inhospitable
mountains toward the goal of the toilsome pilgrimage.
It is Friday. A long line of carriages is winding like a huge serpent
up the Ettal mountain. Amid the throng, two very handsome landaus are
especially conspicuous. The first is drawn by four horses in costly
harnesses adorned with a coronet, which prance gaily in the slow
progress, as if the ascent of the Ettal mountain was but pastime for
animals of their breed. In the equipage, which is open, sit a lady and
a gentleman, pale, listless, uninterested in their surroundings and
apparently in each other; the second one contains a maid, a man
servant, and on the box the courier, with the pompous, official manner,
which proclaims to the world that the family he has the honor of
serving and in whose behalf he pays the highest prices, is an
aristocratic one. The mistress of this elegant establishment, spite of
her downcast eyes and almost lifeless air, is a woman of such
remarkable beauty that it is apparent even amidst the confusion of
veils and wraps. Blonde hair, as soft as silk, clusters in rings around
her brow and diffuses a warm glow over a face white as a tea rose,
intellectual, yet withal wonderfully, tender and sensuous in its
outlines. Suddenly, as though curious to penetrate the drooping lids
and see the eyes they concealed, the sun bursts through a rift in the
clouds, throwing a golden bridge of rays from mountain to mountain. Now
the lashes are raised to return the greeting, revealing sparkling dark
eyes of a mysterious color, varying every instant as they follow the
shimmering rays that glide along the cliff. Then something flashes from
a half-concealed cave and the beams linger a moment on a pale face. It
is an image of Christ carved in wood which, with uplifted hand, bids
the new comers welcome. But those who are now arriving do not
understand its language, the greeting remains unanswered.
The sunbeams glide farther on as if saying, "If this is not the Christ
you are seeking, perhaps it is he?" And now--they stop. On a rugged
peak, illumined by a halo of light, stands a figure, half concealed by
the green branches, gazing with calm superiority at the motley, anxious
crowd below. He has removed his hat and, heated by the rapid walk, is
wiping the perspiration from his brow. Long black locks parted in the
middle, float back from a grave, majestic face with a black beard and
strangely mournful black, far-seeing eyes. The hair, tossed by the
wind, is caught by a thorny branch which sways above the prematurely
furrowed brow. The sharp points glow redly in the brilliant sunset
light, as if crimsoned with blood from the head which rests dreamily
against the trunk. A tremor runs through the form of the woman below;
she suddenly sits erect, as though roused from sleep. The wandering
rays which sought her eyes also lead her gaze to those of the solitary
man above, and on this golden bridge two sparkling glances meet. Like
two pedestrians who cannot avoid each other on a narrow path, they look
and pause. They grasp and hold each other--one must yield, for neither
will let the other pass.
Then the sunbeam pales, the bridge has fallen, and the apparition
vanishes in the forest shadows.
"Did you see that?" the lady asked her companion, who had also glanced
up at the cliff.
"What should I have seen?"
"Why--that--that--" she paused, uncertain what words to choose. She was
going to say, "that man up there," but the sentence is too prosaic, yet
she can find no other and says merely, "him up there!" Her companion,
glancing skyward, shakes his head.
"_Him_ up there! I really believe, Countess, that the air of Ammergau
is beginning to affect you. Apparently you already have religious
hallucinations--or we will say, in the language of this hallowed soil,
heavenly visions!"
The countess leans silently back in her corner--the cold, indifferent
expression returns to the lips which just parted in so lovely a smile.
"But what did you see? At least tell me, since I am not fortunate
enough to be granted such visions," her companion adds with kindly
irony. "Or was it too sublime to be communicated to such a base
worldling as I?"
"Yes," she says curtly, covering her eyes with her hand, as if to shut
out the fading sunset glow in order to recall the vision more
distinctly. Then she remains silent.
Night gradually closes in, the panting train of horses has reached the
village. Now the animals are urged into a trot and the drivers turn the
solemn occasion into a noisy tumult. The vehicles jolt terribly in the
ruts, the cracking of whips, the rattle of wheels, the screams of
frightened children and poultry, the barking of dogs, blend in a
confused din, and that nothing may be wanting to complete it, a howling
gust of wind sweeps through the village, driving the drifting clouds
into threatening masses.
"This is all we lacked--rain too!" grumbled the gentleman. "Shall I
have the carriage closed?"
"No," replied the Countess, opening her umbrella. "Who would have
thought it; the sun was shining ten minutes ago!"
"Yes, the weather changes rapidly in the mountains. I saw the shower
rising. While you were admiring some worthy wood-cutter up yonder as a
heavenly apparition, I was watching the approaching tempest." He draws
the travelling rug, which has slipped down, closer around the lady and
himself. "Come what may, I am resigned; when we are in Rome, we must
follow the Roman customs. Who would not go through fire and water for
you, Countess?" He tries to take her hand, but cannot find it among the
shawls and wraps. He bites his lips angrily; he had expected that the
hand he sought would gratefully meet his in return for so graceful an
expression of loyalty! Large drops of rain beat into his face.
"Not even a clasp of the hand in return for the infernal journey to
this peasant hole," he mutters.
The carriages thunder past the church, the flowers and crosses on the
graves in the quiet church-yard tremble with the shaking of the ground.
The lamps in the parsonage are already lighted, the priest comes to the
window and gazes quietly at the familiar spectacle. "Poor travellers!
Out in such a storm!"
One carriage after another turns down a street or stops before a house.
The Countess and her companion alone have not yet reached their
destination. Meantime it has grown perfectly dark. The driver is
obliged to stop to shut up the carriage and light the lantern, for the
rain and darkness have become so dense and the travellers are drenched.
An icy wind, which always accompanies a thunderstorm in the mountain,
blows into their faces till they can scarcely keep their eyes open. The
servant, unable to see in the gloom, is clumsy in closing the carriage,
the hand-bags fall down upon the occupants; the driver can scarcely
hold the horses, which are frightened by the crowds in pursuit of
lodgings. He is not familiar with the place and, struggling to restrain
the plunging four-in-hand, enquires the way in broken sentences from
the box, and only half catches the answers, which are indistinct in the
tumult. Meantime the other servants have arrived. The Countess orders
the courier to drive on with the second carriage and take possession of
the rooms which have been engaged. The man, supposing it is an easy
matter to find the way in so small a place, moves forward. The Countess
can scarcely control her ill humor.
"An abominable journey--the horses overheated by the ascent of the
mountain and now this storm. And the lamps won't burn, the wind
constantly blows them out. You were right, Prince, we ought to have
taken a hired--" She does not finish the sentence, for the ray
from one of the carriage lamps, which has just been lighted with much
difficulty, falls upon a swiftly passing figure, which looks almost
supernaturally tall in the uncertain glimmer. Long, black locks,
dripping with moisture, are blown by the wind from under his
broad-brimmed hat. He has evidently been surprised by the storm without
an umbrella and is hurrying home--not timidly and hastily, like a
person to whom a few drops of rain, more or less, is of serious
importance, but rather like one who does not wish to be accosted. The
countess cannot see his face, he has already passed, but she
distinguishes the outlines of the slender, commanding figure in the
dark dress, noticing with a rapid glance the remarkably elastic gait,
and an involuntary: "There he goes again!" escapes her lips aloud.
Obeying a sudden impulse, she calls to the servant: "Quick, ask the
gentleman yonder the way to the house of Andreas Gross, where we are
going."
The servant follows the retreating figure a few steps and shouts,
"Here, you--" The stranger pauses a moment, half turns his head, then,