Ober-Ammergau and the great Passion Play have been much talked about.
Ministers, priests, and laymen have discoursed and “stereopticoned”
this wonderful play, to say nothing of the graphic descriptions of the
mighty army of club-women fortunate enough to be an eye-witness to this
great event. It has been so much better told and illustrated, I
hesitate to make my poor effort, but more to preserve it in my memory
as a little keepsake, cherished most fondly, than to entertain others,
I will review it.
“The story that transformed the world” has been told, sung, and
reiterated throughout the length and breadth of Christendom; yet never
has it been given in a way to so attract and convince, at the same time
so far-reaching in its effects, as these simple-minded peasants were
able to give it. The whole world has had a lesson far more valuable and
lasting than the impressions made by generations of broadcloth orators
from high pulpits. If one ever had a conviction or the slightest
spiritual awakening in his life, it is here that he is reminded of it,
for in the vast daily audiences of over four thousand people sat not
one inattentive listener. The grandest rendition of the greatest operas
will fail to elicit the attention of some of their audiences; the most
climaxing and superb oratory produces restlessness in some of its
hearers; but the close attention of this vast audience, with never a
whisper of applause, through the long hours from 8.30 A.M. to 5.30
P.M., with one short hour for intermission, was never equalled. Why?
Because they were listening to “the story that transformed the world,”
having come thousands of miles by land and sea, and braving every
obstacle and discouragement to reach this place—the only place in all
the world that seems adapted to it, or sacred enough to allow the
enactment of such a tragedy. There was no sound in this large audience
but the turning of the leaves as they closely followed the translation
in English, the play being given in the purest German, only broken by
an occasional blowing of the nose, so popular a method for men to
relieve their surcharged tear-ducts, while the women, with no apparent
desire for concealing their emotions, mopped their eyes incessantly.
Upon our arrival we retired to our room, which was opposite the
smoke-house and commanded ten marks per day, the highest price paid. I
retired between two immense feather beds, with my brain on fire and
thoughts forcing themselves into my mind, rendering sleep impossible.
How I wished for those I loved, whose perfect knowledge of the story
was an every-day delight to their hearts. How selfish I felt with my
privilege—sacred privilege! Doubtless thousands were there who had
never heard this story before, not knowing whether Jacob was Joseph’s
father or Joseph Jacob’s father. But they will never forget the lesson
of that day. As we started on our trip to Ober-Ammergau we were filled
with the thoughts of the great and only Passion Play, and found our
daylight ride from Munich to Ober-Ammergau, through the German Alps,
one panoramic view of loveliness. It is impossible to convey to you the
charms of these Bavarian highlands, with crystal-clear trout streams,
lovely woods of many tints, mountains of wild, weather-worn shape, and,
above all, that deep blue sky overhanging the landscape. The mountains
are clothed with fir trees,—fine old trees,—making a worthy
background for an equally charming picture. The journey from Munich
takes about three hours on a “Schnell Zug.” With an unusually long
train, we rise upwards into the mountains, passing two beautiful lakes
on the way, “Wurm See” and “Staffel See.” After the train left Murnau,
we stood on rear platform watching our ascent, with an American, a
gentleman much travelled, and truly capable of imparting any desired
information. Such a person always gives fresh impetus and appreciation.
We here reach higher mountain scenery, up-grade all the way to
Ober-Ammergau, with double-header engine. As you enter this sacred
village, you can see the theatre off to the left, which stands in a
meadow at the far end of the village; the stage is open to wind and
weather, but this year for the first time all seats are covered. The
new theatre was begun in 1899, the cost of which was borne by the
burghers. It consists of six great arches of iron, with wooden
coverings and roof, and is completely covered with canvas, colored
yellow; saints and prophets are painted on the canvased walls. The
seats are elevated to the rear, affording each one a good view. The
performance goes on uninterruptedly, unless it rains so hard that
nothing can be seen. On Passion Play day you have to rise early, as the
play begins early in the morning, and the first half ends at 12
o’clock, with an hour for luncheon. It is resumed at 1.30 P.M. and
closes at 5.30 P.M. The band parades the street at 6 o’clock in the
morning, and at 7 the theatre begins to fill. You can walk from almost
any part of the village to the theatre. Our early Sunday morning walk
was along the bank of the swift, clear stream which rushes through its
narrow banks over the meadow. The villagers can here be seen washing
their dishes and their clothes in the stream. It was all a scene and
sensation never to be forgotten. It is always cool up here; snow falls
knee-deep in October and stays on until May without thawing. You order
your ticket for the play at the same time that you do your room. Every
room in the village has a ticket allotted to it; the ticket is given
according to the price paid for the room. You cannot purchase a ticket
unless you take a room. It is necessary for you to remain in the
village over night. The play beginning at 8 A.M. necessitates the stay
in the village, which was certainly unique if one didn’t favor sharing
his boudoir with the cows. The rooms were three marks to ten marks. We
had a ten-mark room, which entitled us to the best seat.
Ober-Ammergau is a beautiful little village, standing in a level valley
of the Bavarian Alps, which made the trip here one of beauty; at no
place did we enjoy the scenic beauty of the Alps more than on our ride
to the “Linderhof” Palace, a delicious ride from Ober-Ammergau, the day
before we witnessed the play. Through this village the Ammer runs—the
swift Ammer river, clear as crystal. The population of Ober-Ammergau is
not more than 1300. Everybody has a cow. It is the ideal to be
realized—thirty acres and a cow. There are about six hundred cows in
the village, who use the main street for the coming-home milking time.
They all have bells, as well as the horses and sheep. These latter are
so far outnumbered that they are not noticed. The presentation of the
Passion Play is arranged and performed on the basis of the entire
Scriptures, with only one object in view—the edification of the
Christian world. “Instead of setting forth the Gospel story as it
stands in the New Testament, they take as the fundamental idea the
connection of the Passion, incident by incident, with the types,
figures, and prophecies of the Old Testament. The whole of the Old
Testament is thus made, as it were, the massive pedestal for the Cross.
The course of the narrative of the Passion Play is perpetually
interrupted or illustrated by scenes from the older Bible, which are
supposed to prefigure the next event to be represented on the stage. In
order to explain the meaning of the typical tableaux and to prepare the
audience for the scene which follows, recourse is had to an ingenious
arrangement whereby the interludes between each scene are filled up
with singing in parts and in chorus by a choir of guardian angels, the
orchestra being concealed from view. Whenever the curtain falls, they
resume their old places and the singing proceeds. It is a fine attempt
at grand opera made by these peasant villagers; the music is very
impressive, and the oftener you hear it the more you feel its force and
pathos. Their costumes are very effective. In the centre of the stage,
bright scarlet, with white undertunics with golden edging, yellow
leather sandals, stockings same color as the robes which fall from
their shoulders, held in place by gold cord and tassel; all wearing
coronets with cross in centre, producing a brilliant effect. Twice are
these brilliant robes exchanged for black, immediately before and after
the Crucifixion; the bright robes are resumed at the close, when the
play closes with a burst of hallelujahs and a jubilant triumph over the
Ascension of our Lord.” As we walked away, still under the spell that
holds one from start to finish, we sat down at one of the many little
tables in front of the homes on the sidewalk to refresh ourselves. We
fortunately were joined by an elegant gentleman, a German general, late
from the Boer War. He was trying equally as hard to understand our
crude German as we were his miserable English. He was as refreshing as
the big stein of good Münchener beer which we, with thousands of
others, were making disappear. We were in sight, all day long, of
hundreds of priests in their clerical robes, who were equally enjoying
the beer, as well as most of the players, who were anxious to quench
their thirst after their long engagement.
To return to the villagers. They were washing their dishes in the
stream that flows through village, having come down only a few steps
from their homes. This river would seem like a branch, were it not for
its swiftness. We could hardly be satisfied to think we could not drink
from this clear mountain stream. It certainly is an ideal picture of an
ideal village. The clean white walls of the houses with their green
window-shutters could be seen grouped round the church, which, with its
mosque-like minaret, forms the living centre of the place,
architecturally and morally the keystone of the arch. Seen at sunset or
sunrise, the red-tiled roofs, quaint in shape, under the shade of the
surrounding hills, is most beautiful. The homes of most of the players
are also the homes of their cattle. The people occupy upper floors. We
were at the foot of the lofty “Koful” Crag, where, high overhead, stood
the white cross. In the irregular streets (for streets and sidewalks
are one), can be seen Tyrolese mountaineers, strolling and laughing, in
their picturesque costumes, who always bare their heads and remain so,
until the bells, pealing forth the solemn angelus hours, cease. They
seem to be more Swiss than German. They inhabit the mass of mountains
which divides the flat lands of Germany from the plains of Italy, and
are a fine species of the human race. They are an isolated little
community, secured by its rocky ramparts against any intermeddling of
distant governments, and are necessarily independent and live under a
most simple but sound government. Nearly every man is a landholder, the
poorest owning three acres; the richest, sixty acres.
THE VOW
As far back, it is said, as the twelfth century, there has been a
Passion Play performed in the little village, but towards the close of
the sixteenth century the wars that wasted Germany left but little time
to the dwellers of these remote highlands for dramatic representation.
They played dreadful havoc with their homes and fortunes. Among these
unfortunates were the Bavarians of the Tyrol, and as an after
consequence of the wide-wasting Thirty Years’ War, a great pestilence
broke out in the villages surrounding Ober-Ammergau. Whole families
were swept off. In one village two married couples were left alive; a
visitation somewhat similar to our “Black Death.” While village after
village fell a prey to its ravages, the people of Ober-Ammergau
remained untouched, and enforced a vigorous quarantine against all the
outside world. As always happens, one person, Casper Schuchler, broke
through the sanitary regulations. This good man, who was working in the
plague-stricken village of Eschenlohe, felt an uncontrollable desire to
return to his wife and children, who were living in Ober-Ammergau. The
terrible retribution followed. In two days he was dead, and the plague,
which he had brought with him, spread with such fatal haste from house
to house that in thirty-three days eighty-four other villagers had
perished, all sanitary measures having failed. Unless the plague were
stayed, there would soon not be enough to bury the dead. They assembled
to discuss their desperate plight. It was said, “It was as men looking
into the hollow eye-sockets of death.” They cried aloud to God, they
would repent their sins, and in token of their penitence, and as a sign
of gratitude for their deliverance, if they were delivered, they would
every ten years perform this Passion Play. From that hour it ceased;
those who were already smitten with the plague recovered. There were no
more victims of the pestilence. It is said that not since “Moses lifted
up the brazen serpent in the wilderness” has there been so signal a
deliverance from mortal illness on such simple terms. Thus it was that
the Passion Play became a fixed institution in Ober-Ammergau, and has
been performed with few variations, due to wars, ever since. The
performance of the Passion Play, like the angel with the drawn sword
which stands at the summit of the castle of San Angelo, is the pious
recognition of a miraculous interposition for the stay of the
pestilence. But for Casper Schuchler it would have gone the way of all
other Passion plays. He sinned and suffered, but out of his sin and
sorrow has come the Passion Play, the one solitary survivor of what was
at one time a great instrument of religious teaching almost throughout
Europe. As we returned to the village in the quiet of the evening, we
were awe-stricken by the perfectly blue, cloudless sky over-reaching
these sacred hills. The crowd of that day had departed; all was peace;
the whole dramatic troupe were pursuing the even tenor of their
ordinary lives. Most of the best players were wood-carvers, others
peasants or local tradesmen, who were named Matthew, Luke, and John
from their cradles, imitating the lives of these characters from their
birth up. Their royal robes, or rabbinical costumes, were laid aside,
and they would go about their work as ordinary mortals. But what a
revelation, when you consider the latent capacity—musical, dramatical,
intellectual—that a single mountain village can furnish under capable
guidance! Just think,—tinkers, tailors, bakers, and ploughmen being
able to produce such a play! It proves mankind is not lacking in native
capacity. With a guided, active brain, patient love, and careful
education, and the stimulus and inspiration of a great idea, nothing
seems impossible.
We were driven in “Ein Spänner” (one-horse carriage) to Linderhof
Palace by a young Tyrolese, with a little chicken feather in his Alpine
hat. Knowing that all villagers were going through the Passion Play, I
asked why he was not there. He said “he was not born in Ober-Ammergau,
therefore could not take part in the play.” He said this in German, and
seemed quite pleased that we could understand. On our return trip from
Linderhof he pointed out Prince Leopold in his carriage, with
advance-guard. The roadway was quite narrow at this place, so we took a
good look at him. He was quite gray,—the successor of the mad King
Ludwig. They gallantly raised their chapeaux, but we impolite Americans
were so intense in our desire to see nobility, that we in turn forgot
our breeding. All along the various waysides pious souls have erected
shrines. The contours and outlines of those splendid mountains were as
graceful as mobile waves: some rugged and sharp crags hidden by the
clouds—so high; others clearly defined in color against the sky. If
there was anything inharmonious, the atmosphere—that friendly
veil—toned all down into a repose of matchless beauty. The atmosphere
here seems to act as a drapery, dipped in dyes of the gods. You can’t
account for the prismatic coloring, often seen but never told, by pen
or pencil or brush; not just plain, simple, thin sunshine, but a royal
profusion of a golden substance; a sort of transforming quality,—a
vesture of splendor. Amidst this beauty rests the palace of the late
mad king, which seems golden from the covering of the exterior to the
exquisite golden interior. Even the waters of its fountains and lakes
spraying through figures of gold. This palace, no larger than a
metropolitan club-house, contains everything in the way of art that an
abnormal imagination, backed by the coffers of a kingdom, could suggest
and buy. The beautiful marble statue of the young king stands in front
of the palace on a marble elevation, with a beautiful marble peristyle
for a background. The ermine on the royal robe is so perfectly executed
in marble as to cause a desire to run one’s fingers through the fur of
same.
“Schloss Linderhof” we have all possibly heard more about than the
average castle. It shows the characteristic as well as wilful
extravagance of their late king, Ludwig II., for whom it was erected.
It is a fine edifice in rococo style. The interior displays a
magnificence of ornament and a wealth of color and gold which render it
too ornate for the taste of some; but to me it was ideal, both as to
size, decorations, and appointment.
The grotto is certainly worth mention. It is made in the side of a
mountain, and the walk lies under a shaded arbor of continuous beauty.
The entrance to the cave is one huge swinging rock, cut out of a
mountainside, and hung on a pivot, so as to open and close itself.
Within were the stalactites of the grotto, with their beautiful masses,
out of which twinkled myriads of electric lights. On an artificial lake
was an improvised stage with perfect appointments, where the King and
his friends viewed the grand opera from his golden barge that Cleopatra
could never have rivalled. Just outside of this grandeur, which no
human soul inhabited, was a road-house, where the jolly mountaineers
and tourists were eating and drinking, no doubt happier than the king
and all his grandeur had ever been.
It is indeed a strange fate that seems to pursue King Leopold’s family:
one sensational climax after another; brought to death through violence
in tragedies so unsavory that it has been found preferable to leave
them enveloped with a veil of mystery. Surely a strange curse seems to
rest upon the reigning house of Belgium. The curtain is constantly
ringing down on Europe’s royal life tragedies; dethroned, widowed by
assassin, bereaved, and victims of all the fates and furies of Greek
mythology; and now Victoria, Empress Frederick of Germany. Surely there
has been little of late in royal and imperial annals to inspire common
people with envy of the exalted personages born to the purple, and
certainly will cause nobody to long for a crown.
We have now seen the German Alps,—the best time to see them is before
visiting Switzerland,—and still have the pleasure before us of the
loveliness of the Swiss Alpine heights.