of striking personality. The reason for this is to be sought in the
operation of natural selection. In the ordinary German village, the
best men find no career. They go from home to the cities or to foreign
lands, in search of the work and influence not to be secured at home.
The strongest go, and the dull remain. All, this is reversed at
Oberammergau. Only the native citizen takes part in the play. Those
who are stupid or vicious are excluded from it. Not to take part in
the play is to have no reason for remaining in Oberammergau. To be
chosen for an important part is the highest honor the people know. So
the influences at work retain the best and exclude the others.
Moreover, the leading families of Oberammergau, the families of Zwink,
Lang, Rendl, Mayr, Lechner, Diemer, etc., are closely related by
intermarriage. These people are all of one blood--all of one great
family. This family is one of actors, serious, intelligent, devoted,
and all these virtues are turned to effect in their acting.
This work is that of a lifetime. Little boys and girls come on the
stage in the arms of the mothers--matrons of Jerusalem. Older boys
shout in the rabble and become at last Roman soldiers or servants of
the High Priest. Still later, the best of them are ranged among the
Apostles, and the rare genius becomes Pilate, John, Judas, or the
Christ.
In the house of mine host, the chief of the money-changers in the
temple, the eldest daughter was called Magdalena. In 1890, at
fourteen, she was leader of the girls in the tableau of the falling
manna. In 1900, she may, perhaps, become Mary Magdalen, the end in
life which her parents have chosen for her.
After the cannon sounds, the chorus of guardian spirits
(_Schützengeister_) comes forward to make plain by speech or action the
meaning of the coming scenes. This chorus is modeled after the chorus
in the Greek plays. It is composed of twenty-four singers, the best
that Oberammergau has, all picturesquely clad in Greek costumes,--white
tunics, trimmed with gold, and over these an outer mantle of some deep,
quiet shade, the whole forming a perfect harmony of soft Oriental
colors. Stately and beautiful the chorus is throughout. The time
which in ordinary theaters is devoted to the arranging of scenes behind
a blank curtain is here filled by the songs and recitations of the
guardian spirits. Once in the play the chorus appears in black, in
keeping with the dark scenes they come forth to foretell. But at the
end the bright robes are resumed, while the play closes with a burst of
triumph from their lips.
At the beginning of each act, the leader of the singers, the village
schoolmaster, comes forth from the chorus, and the curtain parts,
revealing a tableau illustrative of the coming scenes. These tableaux,
some thirty or forty in number, are taken from scenes in the Old
Testament which are supposed to prefigure acts in the life of Christ.
Thus the treachery of Judas is prefigured by the sale of Joseph by his
brethren. The farewell at Bethany has its type in the mourning bride
in the Song of Solomon; the Crucifixion, in the brazen serpent of
Moses. Sometimes the connection between the tableaux and the scenes is
not easily traced; but even then the pictures justify themselves by
their own beauty. Often five hundred people are brought on the stage
at once. These range in size from the tall and patriarchal Moses to
children of two years. But, old or young, there is never a muscle or a
fold of garment out of place. The first tableau represents Adam and
Eve driven from Eden by the angel with the flaming sword. It was not
easy to believe that these figures were real. They were as changeless
as wax. They did not even wink. The critic may notice that the hands
of the women are large and brown, and the children's faces not free
from sunburn. But there is no other hint that these exquisite pictures
are made up from the village boys and girls, those who on other days
milk the cows and scrub the floors in the little town. The marvelously
varied costumes and the grouping of these tableaux are the work of the
drawing-teacher, Ludwig Lang. Without appearing anywhere in the play,
this gifted man makes himself everywhere felt in the delicacy of his
feeling for harmonies of color.
At the beginning of the play the leader of the chorus addresses the
audience as friends and brothers who are present for the same reason as
the actors themselves--namely, to assist devoutly at the mystery to be
set forth, the story of the redemption of the world. The purpose is,
as far as may be, to share the sorrows of the Saviour and to follow him
step by step on the way of his sufferings to the cross and sepulcher.
Then comes the prologue, solemnly intoned, of which the most striking
words are these:
"Nicht ewig zürnet Er
Ich will, so spricht der Herr,
Den Tod des Sünders nicht."
"He will not be angry forever. I, saith the Lord, will not the death
of the sinner. I will forgive him; he shall live, and in my Son's
blood shall be reconciled."
When its part is finished the chorus retires, and the Passion Play
begins with the entry of Christ into Jerusalem. Far in the distance we
hear the music, "Hail to thee, O David's son!" Then follows a
seemingly endless procession of men, women, and children who wave
palm-leaves and shout hosannas. One little flaxen-haired girl, dressed
in blue, and carrying a long, slender palm-leaf, is especially striking
in her beauty and naturalness.
At last He comes, riding sidewise upon a beast that seems too small for
his great stature. He is dressed in a purple robe, over which is a
mantle of rich crimson. Beside him, in red and olive-green, is the
girlish-looking youth, Peter Rendl, who takes the part of Saint John.
Behind him follow his disciples, each with the pilgrim's staff. Two of
these are more conspicuous than the others. One is a white-haired,
eager old man, wearing a mantle of olive-green. The other, younger,
dark, sullen, and tangle-haired, dressed in a robe of saffron over dull
yellow, is the only person in the throng out of harmony with the
prevailing joyousness.
[Illustration: Peter Rendl as Saint John.]
Followed by the people, who stand apart in reverence as he passes among
them, Christ approaches the temple. His face is pale, in marked
contrast to his abundant black hair. His expression is serious, or
even care-worn, less mild than in the usual pictures of Jesus, but
certainly in keeping with the scenes of the Passion Play. A fine,
strong, masterful man of great stature and immense physical strength is
the wood-carver, Josef Mayr, who now for three successive decades has
taken this part. A man of attractive presence and lofty bearing, one
whom every eye follows as he goes about the town on the round of his
daily duties, yet simple-hearted and modest, as becomes one who takes
on himself not only the dress but the name and figure of the Saviour.
Essays have been written on "Christus" Mayr and his conception of
Jesus, and I can only assent to the general impression. To me it seems
that Mayr's thought of Christ is one which all must accept. He appears
as "one driven by the Spirit,"--the great mild teacher, the man who can
afford to be silent before kings and before mobs, and to whom the pains
of Calvary are not more deep than the sorrows of Gethsemane, the man
who comes to do the work of his Father, regardless alike of human
praise or of human contempt. The great strength of the presentation is
that it brings to the front the essentials of Christ's life and death.
There is no suggestion of theological subtleties nor of the ceremonies
of any church. It is simply true and terrible.
From one of his fellow-actors, I learned this of Josef Mayr. He has
always been what he is now, a hand-worker ("_gemeiner Arbeiter_") in
Oberammergau. He has never been away from his native town except once,
when he went as a workman to Vienna, and once when, in 1870, the play
was interrupted by the war with France, and Mayr himself was taken into
the army. Out of respect to his art, he was never sent to the front,
but kept in the garrison at Munich. When the war was over, and he came
back, in 1871, the grateful villagers resumed the play as their "best
method of thanking God who had given them the blessings of victory and
peace."
Canon Farrar, of Westminster, has given us the best and most
sympathetic account yet published of the various actors. Of Mayr he
said: "It is no small testimony to the goodness and the ability of
Josef Mayr that in his representation of Christ he does not offend us
by a single word or a single gesture. If there were in his manner the
slightest touch of affectation or of self-consciousness; if there were
the remotest suspicion of a strut in his gait, we should be compelled
to turn aside in disgust. As it is, we forget the artist altogether.
For it is easy to see that Josef Mayr forgets himself, and wishes only
to give a faithful picture of the events in the Gospel story."
As the Master enters the temple, he finds that its courts are filled
with a noisy throng of money-changers, peddlers, and dealers in animals
for sacrifice. He is filled with wrath and indignation. In a
commanding tone, he orders them to take their own and leave this holy
place. "There is room enough for trading outside. 'My house,' thus
saith the Lord, 'shall be a house of prayer to all the people.' Ye
have made it a den of thieves." ("_Zur Räuberhöhle, habt Ihr es
gemacht!_")
The peddlers pay no attention to his protest. Then, with a sudden
burst of wrath, he breaks upon them, overturning their tables,
scattering their gold upon the floor, and beating them with thongs.
The animals kept for sacrifice are released. The sheep scamper
backward to the rear of the stage, and escape through the open door.
The white doves fly out over the heads of the spectators, and are lost
against the green slopes of the Kofel.
The play now follows the Gospel narrative very closely. It is, in
fact, the Gospel story, with only such changes as fit it for continuous
presentation. Events aside from the current of the story, such as the
wedding at Cana and the raising of Lazarus, are omitted. There are few
long speeches. The leading features of what may be called the plot,
the wrath of the money-changers, the fierce hatred of the Pharisees,
the avarice of Judas, which makes him their tool, are all sharply
emphasized.
The next scene introduces us to the High Council of the Jews, and to
its leading spirit, Caiaphas. Caiaphas is represented by the
burgomaster of the village, Johann Lang. "No medieval pope," says
Canon Farrar, "could pronounce his sentences with more dignity and
verve. He is what has been called 'that terrible creature, the perfect
priest.'" Violent, unforgiving, and harsh, he is the soul of the
conspiracy. His strong determination is reflected in the weak
malignity of his colleague, Annas, as well as in the priests and
scribes. "While he lives," Caiaphas says, "there is no peace for
Israel. It is better that one man should die, that the whole nation
perish not."
We next behold Jesus accompanied by his disciples on the road toward
the house of Simon of Bethany. As they walk along, he talks sadly of
his approaching death. None of them can understand his words; for to
them he has been victorious over all his enemies. "A word from thee,"
says Peter, "and they are crushed." "I see not," says Thomas, "why
thou speakest so often of sorrow and death. Do we not read in the
prophets that Christ lives forever? Thou canst not die, for with thy
power thou wakest even the dead." Even John declares that Christ's
words are dark and dismal, while he and his associates use every effort
to cheer the Master.
At the house of Simon of Bethany, Mary Magdalen breaks the costly dish
of ointment. Judas, who carries the slender purse of the disciples, is
vexed at the waste, and talks of all the good the value of this
ointment might have done if given to the poor.
Very carefully worked out is the character of Judas, represented by
Johann Zwink, the miller of Oberammergau, who ten years ago took the
part of Saint John. The people of Oberammergau regard Zwink as the
most gifted of all their actors; for he can, they say, play any part.
("_Er spielt alle Rolle._") Gregor Lechner, who in his younger days
had the part of Judas, is now Simon of Bethany. Of all the actors of
Oberammergau, the people told us, Lechner is the most beloved
("_bestens beliebt_").
[Illustration: Johann Zwink as Judas.]
In Zwink's conception, Judas is a man full of ambition, but without
enthusiasm. He is attracted by the power of Christ, from which he
expects great results. But Christ seems to care little for his own
mighty works. "My mission," he says, "is not to command, but to
serve." So Judas becomes impatient and dissatisfied. The eager
enthusiasm of Peter and the tender devotion of John alike bore and
disgust him. So the emissaries of Caiaphas find him half-prepared for
their mission. He admits that he has made a mistake in joining his
fortunes to those of an unpractical and sorrowful prophet who lets
great opportunities slip from his grasp, and who wastes a fortune in
precious ointment with no more thought than if it had been water.
"There has of late been a coolness between him and me," he confesses.
"I am tired," he says, "of hoping and waiting, with nothing before me
except poverty, humiliation, perhaps even torture and the prison." He
is especially ill at ease when the Master speaks of his approaching
death. "If thou givest up thy life," he says, "what will become of
us?" And so Judas reasons with himself that he can afford to be
prudent. If his Master fail, then he must be a false prophet, and
there is no use in following him. If he succeed, as with his mighty
power he can hardly fail to do, then, says Judas, "I will throw myself
at his feet. He is such a good man; never have I seen him cast a
penitent away. But I fear to face the Master. His sharp look goes
through and through me. Still at the most I shall only tell the
priests where my Master is." And thus the good and bad impulses
struggle for the mastery, giving to this character the greatest tragic
interest. He visibly shrinks before the words of Christ, "One of you
shall betray me." In the High Council he cringes under the scorching
reproach of Nicodemus. "Dost thou not blush," Nicodemus says, "to sell
thy Lord and Master? This blood-money calls to heaven for revenge.
Some day it will burn hot in thine avarice-sunken soul."
But the High Priest says, "Come, Judas, take the silver, and be a man."
And when the thirty pieces are counted out to him, he cannot resist the
temptation, but clutches them with a miser's grasp and hurries off to
intercept the Master on his way through the Garden of Gethsemane.
Meanwhile, after a tender farewell from his mother, Christ leaves the
house of Simon of Bethany, and, with his disciples, takes the road to
Jerusalem.
The part of Mary the mother of Christ is admirably taken by Rosa Lang.
In dress and mien, she seems to have stepped down from some
picture-frame of Raphael or Murillo. The Mary of Rosa Lang is in every
respect a worthy companion of Mayr's Christus.
[Illustration: Rosa Lang as Mary.]
The various scenes in which the Apostles appear are modeled more or
less after the great religious paintings, especially those of the
Bavarian artist, Albrecht Dürer. The Last Supper is a living
representation of the famous painting of Leonardo da Vinci in the
refectory at Milan. Peter and Judas are here brought into sharp
contrast. Next to Christ, is the slender figure of the beloved
disciple. The characters of the different Apostles are placed in bold
relief. We are at once interested in the fine face of Andreas Lang,
the Apostle Thomas, critical and questioning, but altogether loyal.
The Apostle Philip looks for signs and visions, and would see the
Father coming in His glory from the skies, not in the common every-day
scenes of life into which the Master led them. "Have I been so long
time with thee, and yet hast thou not known me, Philip?"
Next comes the night scene in the Garden of Gethsemane on the Mount of
Olives. The tired Apostles rest upon the grassy bank, and one by one
they fall asleep. Even Peter, who is nearest the Master, can keep
awake no longer. Christ kneels upon the rocks above the sleeping
Peter. "O Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me." He
looks back to his disciples. "Are your eyes so heavy that ye cannot
watch? The weight of God's justice lies upon me. The sins of the
fallen world weigh me down. O Father, if it is not possible that this
hour go by, then may thy holy will be done."
Suddenly a great tumult is heard. The faint light of the morning is
reflected from the clanging armor and from glittering spears. The
Apostles are rudely awakened. Judas comes forth and greets the Master
with a kiss. At this signal, the Master is seized by the soldiers and
roughly bound. Then he is carried away, first to Annas, and afterwards
to the house of Caiaphas.
Of the scenes that immediately follow, the most striking is that of the
denial of Peter. Peter, as represented by the sexton of the church,
Jacob Hitt, is an old man with a young heart, eager and impulsive. He
dreams of the noble part he will take while standing by the Master's
side before kings and priests, but behaves very humanly when he is
brought face to face with an unexpected test.
The scenes of the night have crowded thick and fast. The Apostles have
been scattered by the soldiers. The Master had been bound, and carried
away they know not whither. Peter had tried to defend him, but was
told to "put away his useless sword." In forlorn agony Peter and John
wander about in the dark, seeking news of Jesus. They meet a servant
who tells them that he has been carried before the High Priest, and
that the whole brood of his followers is to be rooted out.
Near the house of the High Priest Annas we see a sort of inn occupied
by rough soldiers. The night is damp and cold. A maid has kindled a
fire in the courtyard, and Peter approaches it to warm his hands, and,
if possible, to gain some further news of the Master. He hears the
soldiers talking of Malchus, one of their number who had had his ear
cut off. They boast of what they will do with the culprit, if he
should ever fall into their power. "An ear for an ear," he hears them
say. Suddenly the maid turns towards Peter and says, "Yes, you, surely
you were with the Nazarene Jesus." Peter hesitates. Should he
confess, he would have his own ears cut off, an ear for an ear--and
most likely his head, too, while his body would be thrown out on the
rubbish heap behind the inn. Peter had said that he would die for the
Master; and so he would on the field of battle, or in any way where he
might have a glorious death. He would die for the Master, but not then
and there. The death of a martyr has its pleasures, no doubt, but not
the death of a dog.
While Peter stood thus considering these matters, one and then another
of the servants insisted that he had surely been seen with the Nazarene
Jesus. Again and again Peter refused all knowledge of the Master.
When the cock crew once more he had denied his Master thrice. While
Peter still insisted, the door opened and the Master came forth under
the High Priest's sentence of death. "And the Lord turned and looked
upon Peter, and Peter went out and wept bitterly." "Oh, Master," he
says in the play:
"Oh, Master, how have I fallen!
I have denied thee, how can it be possible?
Three times denied thee! Oh, thou knowest, Lord,
I was resolved to follow thee to death."
Meanwhile Judas hears the story of what has happened. He is at once
filled with agony and remorse, for he had not expected it. He was sure
that the great power of the Master would bring him through safely at
last. In helpless agony, he rushes before the Council and makes an
ineffective protest. "No peace for me forevermore; no peace for you,"
he says. "The blood of the innocent cries aloud for justice." He is
repulsed with cold indifference. "Will it or not," says the High
Priest, "he must die, and it would be well for thee to look out for
thyself."
In fury he cries out, "If he dies, then am I a traitor. May ten
thousand devils tear me in pieces! Here, ye bloodhounds, take back
your curse!" And flinging the blood-money at the feet of the priests,
he flies from their presence, pursued by the specter of his crime.
The next scene shows us the field of blood--a wind-swept desert, with
one forlorn tree in the foreground. We see the wretched Judas before
the tree. He tears off his girdle, "a snake," he calls it, and places
it about his neck, snapping off a branch of the tree in his haste to
fasten it. "Here, accursed life, I end thee; let the most miserable of
all fruit hang upon this tree." In the action we feel that Judas is
not so much wicked as weak. He has little faith and little
imagination, and his folly of avarice hurries him into betrayal. Those
who see the play feel as the actors feel, that Christ knows the
weakness of man. He would have forgiven Judas, just as he forgave
Peter.
In the early morning Christ is brought before Pontius Pilate. The
Roman governor, admirably represented by Thomas Rendl, appears in the
balcony and talks down to Caiaphas, who sends up his accusations from
the street below. His clear sense of justice makes Pilate at first
more than a match for the conspirators. With magnificent scorn he
tells Caiaphas that he is "astounded at his sudden zeal for Caesar."
Of Christ he says: "He seems to me a wise man--so wise that these dark
men cannot bear the light from his wisdom." Learning that Jesus is
from Galilee, he throws the whole matter into the hands of Herod, the
governor of that province.
The words of Pilate are very finely spoken. "We marvel," says one
writer, "how the peasant Rendl learned to bear himself so nobly or to
utter the famous question, 'What is truth?' with a certain dreamy
inward expression and tone, as though outward circumstances had for the
instant vanished from his mind, and he were alone with his own soul and
the flood of thought raised by the words of Jesus."
In contrast to Pilate, stands Herod, lazy and voluptuous. He, too,
finds nothing of evil in Jesus, whom he supposes to be a clever
magician. "Cause that this hall may become dark," he says, "or that
this roll of paper, which is thy sentence of death, shall become a
serpent." He receives Christ in good-natured expectancy, which changes
to disgust when he answers him not a word. Herod pronounces him "dumb
as a fish," and, after clothing him in a splendid purple mantle, he
sends him away unharmed, with the title of "King of Fools."
Again Christ is brought before Pilate, who tells Caiaphas plainly that
his accusations mean only his own personal hatred, and that the voice
of the people is but the senseless clamor of the mob set in operation
by intrigue. Pilate orders Jesus to be scourged, in the hope that the
sight of his noble bearing amid unmerited cruelties may soften the
hearts of the people. Nowhere does the noble figure of Mayr appear to
better advantage than in this scene, where, after a brutal
chastisement, scarcely lessened in the presentation on the stage, the
Roman soldiers place a cattail flag in his hand and salute him as a
king.
Pilate then brings forth an abandoned wreck of humanity, old Barabbas,
the murderer. As Christ stands before them, blood-stained and crowned
with thorns, half in hope and half in irony, Pilate invites them to
choose. "Behold the man," he said, "a wise teacher whom ye have long
honored, guilty of no evil deed. Jesus or Barabbas, which will ye
choose?"
All the more fiercely the mob cries, "Crucify him! Crucify him!"
[Illustration: "Ecce Homo!"]
Pilate is puzzled. "I cannot understand these people," he said. "But
a few days ago, ye followed this man with rejoicing through the streets
of Jerusalem." The High Priest threatens to appeal to Rome. Pilate
fears to face such an appeal. He has little confidence in the favor or
the justice of the Caesar whom he serves. At last he consents to what
he calls "a great wrong in order to avert a greater evil." He calls
for water, and washes his hands in ostentatious innocence. Finally, as
he signs the verdict of condemnation in wrath and disgust, he breaks
his staff of office, and flings the fragments upon the stairs, at the
feet of the priests.