On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
of special visitation it could sweat blood, and hundreds journeyed to
the "Wies," trustfully seeking the wonder-working "Wiesherrle." It was
a terrible image of suffering, and the first sight of the scourged
body and visage contorted by pain caused an involuntary thrill of
horror--increased by the black beard and long hair, such as often grows
in the graves of the dead. The face stared fixedly at the beholder with
its glassy eyes, as if to say: "Do you believe in me?" The emaciated
body was so lifelike, that it might have been an embalmed corpse placed
erect. But the horror vanished when one gazed for a while, for an
expression of patience rested on the uncanny face, the lashes of the
fixed eyes began to quiver, the image became instinct with life, the
chains swayed slightly, and the drops of blood again grew liquid. Why
should they not? The heart, which loves forever can also, to the eye of
faith, bleed forever. Hundreds of wax limbs and silver hearts,
consecrated bones and other anomalies bore witness to past calamities
where the Wiesherrle had lent its aid. But he could also be angry, as
the rattling of his chains showed, and this gave him a somewhat
spectral, demoniac aspect.
Under the protection of this strange image of Christ, whose power
extended over the whole mountain plateau, the living image of Christ
lay unconscious. Then the vesper-bells, ringing from the church, roused
him. He hastily started up and, in doing so, struck against the block
where the wood was split. A chain flung upon it fell. Freyer raised and
held it a moment before replacing it on the block, thinking of the
scourging in the Passion Play.
"Heavens, the Wiesherrle!" shrieked a terrified voice, and the door
leading into the barn, which had been softly opened, was hurriedly
shut.
"Father, father, come quick--the Wiesherrle is in the barn!"--screamed
some one in deadly fright.
"Silly girl," Freyer heard a man say. "Are you crazy? What are you
talking about?"
"Really, Father, on my soul; just go there. The Wiesherrle is standing
in the middle of the hay. I saw him. By our Lord and the Holy Cross.
Amen!"
Freyer heard the girl sink heavily on the bench by the stove. The
father answered angrily: "Silly thing, silly thing!" and went to the
door in his hob-nailed shoes. "Is any one in here?" he asked. But as
Freyer approached, the peasant himself almost started back in terror:
"Good Lord, who are you? Why do you startle folks so? Can't you speak?"
"I asked the man if I might rest there, and then I fell asleep."
"I don't see why you should be so lazy, turning night into day.
Tramp on, and sleep off your drunkenness somewhere else! I want no
miracles--and no Wiesherrle in my house."
"I'll pay for everything," said Freyer humbly, almost beseechingly,
holding out his little stock of ready money, for he was overpowered
with hunger and thirst.
"What do I care for your pennies!" growled the tavern keeper angrily,
closing the door.
There stood the hapless man, in whom the girl's soul had recognized
with awe the martyred Christ, but whom the rude peasant turned from his
door as a vagrant--hungry and thirsty, worn almost unto death, and with
a walk of five hours before him. He took his hat and his staff, hung
his dry coat over his shoulder, and left the barn.
As he went out he heard the last notes of the vesper-bell, and felt a
yearning to go to Him for whom he had been mistaken, it seemed as if He
were calling in the echoing bells: "Come to me, I have comfort for
you." He struck into the forest path that led to the Wiesherrle. The
white walls of the church soon appeared and he stepped within, where
the showy, antiquated style of the last century mingled with the crude
notions of the mountaineers for and by whom it was built.
Skulls, skeletons of saints, chubby-cheeked cupids, cruel martyrdoms,
and Arcadian shepherdesses, nude penitents and fiends dragging them
down into the depths, lambs of heaven and dogs of hell were all in
motley confusion! Above the chaotic medley arched on fantastic columns
the huge dome with a gate of heaven painted in perspective, which,
according to the beholder's standpoint rose or sank, was foreshortened
or the opposite.
A wreath of lucernes beautifully ornamented, through which the blue sky
peeped and swallows building their nests flew in and out, formed as it
were the jewel in the architecture of the cornice. Even the eye of God
was not lacking, a tarnished bit of mirror inserted above the pulpit in
the centre of golden rays, and intended to flash when the sun shone on
it.
And there in a glass shrine directly beneath all the tinsel rubbish, on
the gilded carving of the high altar, the poor, plain little Wiesherrle
hung in chains. The two, the wooden image of God, and the one of flesh
and blood, confronted each other--the Christ of the Ammergau Play
greeted the Christ of the Wies. It is true, they did resemble each
other, like suffering and pain. Freyer knelt long before the Wiesherrle
and what they confided to each other was heard only by the God in whose
service and by whose power they wrought miracles--each in his own way.
"You are happy," said the Wiesherrle. "Happier than I! Human hands
created and faith animated me; where that is lacking, I am a mere
dead wooden puppet, only fit to be flung into the fire. But you were
created by God, you live and breathe, can move and act--and highest of
all--_suffer_ like Him whom we represent. I envy you!"
"Yes!" cried Freyer; "You are right; _to suffer_ like Christ is highest
of all! My God, I thank Thee that I suffer."
This was the comfort the Wiesherrle had for his sorely tried brother.
It was a simple thought, but it gave him strength to bear everything.
It is always believed that a great grief requires a great consolation.
This is not true, the poorer the man is, the more value the smallest
gift has for him, and the more wretched he is--the smallest comfort! To
the husbandman whose crops have been destroyed by hail, it would be no
comfort to receive the gift of a blossom, which would bring rapture to
the sultry attic chamber of a sick man.
In a great misfortune we often ask: "What gave the person strength to
endure it?" It was nothing save these trivial comforts which only the
unhappy know. The soul lamenting the loss of a loved one while many
others are left is not comforted when the lifeless figure of a martyr
preaches patience--but to the desolate one, who no longer has aught
which speaks to him, the lifeless wooden image becomes a friend and its
mute language a consolation.
Beside the altar stood an alms-box. The gifts for which it was intended
were meant for repairs on the church and the preservation of the
Wiesherrle, who sometimes needed a new cloth about his loins. Freyer
flung into it the few coins which the innkeeper had disdained, because
he looked like the Wiesherrle, now they should go to him. He felt as if
he should need no more money all his life, as if the comfort he had
here received raised him far above earthly need and care.
Twilight was gathering, the sun had sunk behind the blue peaks of the
Pfrontner mountains, and now the hour struck--the sacred hour of the
return home.
Already he felt with joy the throbbing of the pulses of his home, a
mysterious connection between this place and distant Ammergau. And he
was right: Childish as was the representation of the divine ideal, it
was, nevertheless, the rippling of one of those hidden springs of faith
which blend in the Passion Play, forming the great stream of belief
which is to supply a thirsting world. As on a barren height, amid
tangled thickets, we often greet with delight the low murmur of a
hidden brook which in the valley below becomes the mighty artery of our
native soil, so the returning wanderer hurried on longingly toward the
mysterious spring which led him to the mother's heart. But his knees
trembled, human nature asserted its rights. He must eat or he would
fall fainting. But where could food be had? The last pennies were in
the alms-box--he could not have taken them out again, even had he
wished it. There was no way save to ask some one--for bread. He dragged
himself wearily to the parsonage--he would try there, the priest would
be less startled by the "Wiesherrle" than the peasant. Thrice he
attempted to pull the bell, but very gently. He fancied the whole world
could hear that he was ringing--to beg. Yet, if it did not sound, no
one would open the door. At last, with as much effort as though he was
pulling the bell-rope in the church steeple, he rang. The bell echoed
shrilly. The pastor's old cook appeared.
Freyer raised his hat. "Might I ask you for a piece of bread?" he
murmured softly, and the tall figure seemed to droop lower with every
word.
The cook, who was never allowed to turn a beggar from the door, eyed
him a moment with mingled pity and anxiety. "Directly," she answered,
and went in search of something, but prudently closed the door, leaving
him outside as we do with suspicious individuals. Freyer waited, hat in
hand. The evening breeze swept chill across the lofty mountain plateau
and blew his hair around his uncovered head. At last the cook came,
bringing him some soup and a bit of bread. Freyer thanked her, and ate
it! When he had finished he gave the little dish back to the woman--but
his hand trembled so that he almost let it fall and his brow was damp.
Then he thanked her again, but without raising his eyes, and quietly
pursued his way.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE RETURN HOME.
The "Wies" towered like an island from amid a grey sea of clouds. All
the mountains of Trauchgau and Pfront, Allgau and Tyrol, which surround
it like distant shores and cliffs, had vanished in the mist. The
windows in the comfortable tavern were lighted and a fire was blazing
on the hearth. One little lamp after another shone from the quiet
farm-houses.
The lonely church now lay silent! Silent, too, was the Wiesherrle in
his glass shrine, while the wayfarer pressed steadily down through the
mist toward home and the cross! Freyer moved on more and more swiftly
across the hill-sides and through the woods till he reached the path
leading down the mountain to the "Halb-Ammer," which flowed at its
base. Gradually he emerged from the strata of mist, and now a faint ray
of moonlight fell upon his path.
Hour after hour he pursued his way. One after another the lights in the
houses were extinguished. The world sank into slumber, and the villages
were wrapped in silence.
In the churches only the ever-burning lamps still blazed, and he made
them his resting-places.
The clock in the church steeple of Altenau struck twelve as he passed
through. A belated tippler approached him with the reeling step of a
drunkard, but started back when he saw his face, staring after him with
dull bewildered eyes as if he beheld some spectre of the night.
"An image of horror I glide through the land!" Freyer murmured softly.
To-night he did not sing his song. This evening his pain was soothed,
his soul was preparing for another paean--on the cross!
Now the little church of Kappel appeared before him on its green hill,
like a pious sign-post pointing the way to Ammergau. But patches of
snow still lingered amid the pale green of the Spring foliage, for it
is late ere the Winter is conquered by the milder season and the keen
wind swept down the broad highway, making the wayfarer's teeth chatter
with cold. He felt that his vital warmth was nearly exhausted, he had
walked two days with no hot food. For the soup at the parsonage that
day was merely lukewarm--he stood still a moment, surely he had dreamed
that! He could not have begged for bread? Yes, it was even so. A tremor