THE PASSION PLAY AND THE SCHOOL OF THE CROSS.
OBER-AMMERGAU, Bavaria, Aug. 22d.
My readers probably did not expect to hear from me in this lonely and
remote part of the world. Perhaps some of them never heard of such a
place as Ober-Ammergau, and do not know what should give it a special
interest above hundreds of other places. Let me explain. Ober-Ammergau
is a small village in the Bavarian Alps, where for the last two
hundred years has been performed, at regular intervals, THE PASSION
PLAY--that is, a dramatic representation, in which are enacted before
us the principal events, and particularly the closing scenes, in the
life of our Lord. The idea of such a thing, when first suggested to a
Protestant mind, is not only strange, but repulsive in the highest
degree. It seems like holding up the agonies of our Saviour to public
exhibition, dragging on the stage that which should remain an object
of secret and devout meditation. When I first heard of it--which was
some years ago, in America--I was shocked at what seemed the gross
impiety of the thing; and yet, to my astonishment, several of the most
eminent ministers of the city of New York, both Episcopal and
Presbyterian, who had witnessed it, told me that it was performed in
the most religious spirit, and had produced on them an impression of
deep solemnity. Such representations were very common in the Middle
Ages; I believe they continued longest in Spain, but gradually they
died out, till now this is the only spot in Europe where the custom is
still observed. It has thus been perpetuated in fulfilment of a vow
made two centuries ago; and here it may be continued for centuries to
come. A performance so extraordinary, naturally excites great
curiosity. As it is given only once in ten years, the interest is not
dulled by too frequent repetition; and whoever is on the Continent in
the year of its observance, must needs turn aside to see this great
sight. At such times this little mountain village is thronged with
visitors, not only from Bavaria and other Catholic countries, but from
England and America.
This is not the year for its performance. It was given in 1870, and
being interrupted by the Franco-German war, was resumed and completed
in 1871. The next regular year will be 1880. But this year, which is
midway between the two decennial years, has had a special interest
from a present of the King of Bavaria, who, wishing to mark his sense
of the extraordinary devotion of this little spot in his dominions,
has made it a present of a gigantic cross, or rather three crosses, to
form a "Calvary," which is to be erected on a hill overlooking the
town. In honor of this royal gift, it was decided to have this year a
special representation, not of the full Passion Play, but of a series
of Tableaux and Acts, representing what is called THE SCHOOL OF THE
CROSS--that is, such scenes from the Old and New Testaments as
converge upon that emblem of Christ's death and of man's salvation.
This is not in any strict sense a Play, though intended to represent
the greatest of all tragedies, but a series of Tableaux Vivants, in
some cases (only in those from the Old Testament) the statuesque
representation being aided by words from the Bible in the mouths of
the actors in the scene. The announcement of this new sacred drama (if
such it must be called) reached us in Vienna, and drew us to this
mountain village; and in selecting such subjects as seem most likely
to interest my readers, I pass by two of the most attractive places in
Southern Germany--Salzburg which is said to be "the most beautiful
spot in Europe," where we spent three days; and Munich, with its Art
Galleries, where we spent four--to describe this very unique
exhibition, so unlike anything to be seen in any other part of the
world.
We left Munich by rail, and, after an hour's ride, varied our journey
by a sail across a lake, and then took to a diligence, to convey us
into the heart of the mountains. Among our companions were several
Catholic priests, who were making a pilgrimage to Ober-Ammergau as a
sacred place. The sun had set before we reached our destination. As we
approached the hamlet, we found wreaths and banners hung on poles
along the road--the signs of the fete on the morrow. As the resources
of the little place were very limited, the visitors, as they arrived,
had to be quartered among the people of the village. We had taken
tickets at Munich which secured us at least a roof over our heads, and
were assigned to the house of one of the better class of peasants,
where the good man and good wife received us very kindly, and gave us
such accommodations as their small quarters allowed, showing us to our
rooms up a little stair which was like a ladder, and shutting us in by
a trap-door. It gave us a strange feeling of distance and loneliness,
to find ourselves sleeping in such a "loft," under the roof of a
peasant among the mountains of Bavaria.
The morning broke fair and bright, and soon the whole village was
astir. Peasants dressed in their gayest clothes came flocking in from
all the countryside. At nine o'clock three cannon shots announced the
commencement of the fete. The place of the performance was on rising
ground, a little out of the village, where a large barn-like structure
had been recently erected, which might hold a thousand people.
Formerly when the Passion Play was performed, it was given in the open
air, no building being sufficient to contain the crowds which thronged
to the unaccustomed spectacle. This rude structure is arranged like a
theatre, with a stage for the actors, and the rest of the house
divided off into seats, the best of which are generally occupied by
strangers while the peasant population crowd the galleries. We had
front seats, which were only separated from the stage by the
orchestra, which deserves a word of praise, since the music was both
_composed_ and performed wholly by such musical talent as the little
village itself could provide.
At length the music ceased, and the _choir_, which was composed of
thirteen persons in two divisions, entered from opposite sides of the
stage, and "formed in line" in front of the curtain. The choir takes a
leading part in this extraordinary performance--the same, indeed, that
the chorus does in the old Greek tragedy, preceding each act or
tableau with a recitation or a hymn, designed as a prelude to
introduce what is to follow, and then at the close of the act
concluding with what preachers would call an "improvement" or
"application." In this opening chant the chorus introduced the mighty
story of man's redemption, as Milton began his Paradise Lost, by
speaking
Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world, and all our woe.
It was a sort of recitative or plaintive melody, fit keynote of the
sad scenes that were to follow. The voices ceased, and the curtain
rose.
The first Biblical characters who appeared on the stage were Cain and
Abel, who were dressed in skins after the primitive fashion of our
race. Abel, who was of light complexion and hair, was clad in the
whitest and softest sheep's wool; while Cain, who was dark-featured,
and of a sinister and angry countenance, was covered with a flaming
leopard's skin, as best betokened the ferocity of his character. In
the background rose the incense of Abel's offering. Cain was disturbed
and angry; he spoke to his brother in a harsh voice. Abel replied in
the gentlest accents, trying to soften his brother's heart and turn
away his wrath. Father Adam, too, appears on the scene, using his
parental authority to reconcile his children; and Eve comes in, and
lays her light hand on the arm of her infuriated son, and tries to
soothe him to a gentler mood. Even the Angel of the Lord steps forth
from among the trees of the Garden, to warn the guilty man of the evil
of unbridled rage, and to urge him to timely repentance, that his
offering may be accepted. These united persuasions for the moment seem
to be successful, and there is an apparent reconciliation between the
brothers; Cain falls on Abel's neck, and embraces him. Yet even while
using the language of affection, he has a club in his hand, which he
holds behind him. But the fatal deed is not done upon the stage; for
throughout the play there is an effort to keep out of sight any
repulsive act. So they retire from the scene. But presently nature
itself announces that some deed of violence and blood is being done;
the lightnings flash and thunders roll; and Adam reappears, bearing
Abel in his aged arms, and our first parents together indulge in loud
lamentations over the body of their murdered son.
This story of Cain and Abel occupied several short acts, in which the
curtain rose and fell several times, and at the end of each the chorus
came upon the stage to give the moral of the scene.
In the dialogues the speakers follow closely the Old Testament. If
occasional sentences are thrown in to give a little more fulness of
detail, at least there is no departure from the general outline of the
sacred narrative. It is the story of the first crime, the first
shedding of human blood, told in a dramatic form, by the personages
themselves appearing on the stage.
These scenes from the Old Testament were mingled with scenes from the
New, the aim being to use one to illustrate the other--the antitype
following the type in close succession. Thus the _pendant_ of the
former scenes (to adopt a word much used by artists when one picture
is hung on a wall over against another) was now given in the
corresponding crime which darkens the pages of the New Testament
history--the betrayal of Christ. But there was this difference between
the scenes from the Old Testament and those from the New: in the
latter _there was no dialogue whatever, and no action_, as if it was
all too sacred for words--nothing but the tableau, the figures
standing in one attitude, fixed and motionless. First there was the
scene of Christ driving the money-changers from the temple. Here a
large number of figures--I should think twenty or thirty--appeared
upon the stage, and held their places with unchanging look. Not one
moved; they scarcely breathed; but all stood fixed as marble. All the
historic characters were present--the priests in their robes (the
costumes evidently having been studied with great care), and the
Pharisees glaring with rage upon our Lord, as with holy indignation He
spurns the profane intruders from the sacred precincts.
Then there is the scene of Judas betraying Christ. We see him leading
the way to the spot where our Saviour kneels in prayer; the crowd
follow with lanterns; there are the Roman soldiers, and in the
background are the priests, the instigators of this greatest of
crimes.
In another scene Judas appears again overwhelmed with remorse, casting
down his ill-gotten money before the priests, who look on scornfully,
as if bidding him keep the price of blood, and take its terrible
consequences.
As might be supposed, the part of Judas is one not to be particularly
desired, and we cannot look at a countenance showing a mixture of
hatred and greed, without a strong repugnance. There was a story that
the man who acted Judas in the Passion Play in 1870 had been killed in
the French war, but this we find to be an error. It was a very natural
invention of some one who thought that a man capable of such a crime
ought to be killed. But the old Judas is still living, and, off from
the stage, is said to be one of the most worthy men of the village.
Having thus had set before us the most sticking illustrations of human
guilt, in the first crime that ever stained the earth with blood, and
in the greatest of all crimes, which caused the death of Christ, we
have next presented the method of man's redemption. The chorus again
enters upon the stage, and recites the story of the fall, how man
sinned, and was to be recovered by the sacrifice of one who was to be
an atonement for a ruined world. Again the curtain rises, and we have
before us the high priest Melchisedec, in whose smoking altar we see
illustrated the idea of sacrifice.
The same idea takes a more terrible form in the sacrifice of Isaac. We
see the struggles of his father Abraham, who is bowed with sorrow, and
the heart-broken looks of Sarah, his wife. The latter part, as it
happened, was taken by a person of a very sweet face, the effect of
which was heightened by being overcast with sadness, and also by the
Oriental costume, which, covering a part of the face, left the dark
eyes which peered out from under the long eyelashes, to be turned on
the beholders. Everything in the appearance of Abraham, his bending
form and flowing beard, answered to the idea of the venerable
patriarch. The _couleur locale_ was preserved even in the attendants,
who looked as if they were Arabian servants who had just dismounted
from camels at the door of the tent. Isaac appears, an innocent and
confiding boy, with no presumption of the dark and terrible fate that
is impending over him. And when the gentle Sarah appears, tenderly
solicitous for the safety of her child, the coldest spectator could
hardly be unmoved by a scene pictured with such touching fidelity. It
is with a feeling of relief that, as this fearful tragedy approaches
its consummation, we hear the voice of the angel, and behold that the
Lord has himself provided a sacrifice.
But all these scenes of darkness and sorrow, of guilt and sacrifice,
are now to find their culmination and their explanation in the death
of our Lord, to which all ancient types converge, and on which all
ancient symbols cast their faint and flickering, but not uncertain,
light. As the scenes approach this grand climax, they grow in pathos
and solemnity. Each is more tender and more effective than the last.
One of the most touching, as might be supposed, is that of the Last
Supper, in which we recognize every one of the disciples, so closely
has the grouping been studied from the painting of Leonardo da Vinci
and other old masters with whom this was a favorite subject. There are
Peter and John and the rest, all turning with an eager, anxious look
towards their Master, and all with an indescribable sadness on their
faces. Again the scene changes, and we see our Lord in the Garden of
Gethsemane. There are the three disciples slumbering, overcome with
weariness and sorrow; and there on the sacred mount at midnight
"The suffering Saviour prays alone."
Again the curtain falls, and the chorus, in tones still more plaintive
and mournful, announce that the end is near. The curtain rises, and we
behold THE CRUCIFIXION. Here there are thirty or forty persons
introduced. In the foreground are three or four figures "casting
lots," careless of the awful scene that is going on above them. The
Roman soldier is looking upward with his spear. The three Marys are at
the feet of their Lord; _Mary Magdalen nearest of all, with her arms
clasped around the cross_; Mary, the mother of Christ, looking up with
weeping eyes; and a little farther Mary, the wife of Cleophas. The two
thieves are hanging, with their arms thrown over the cross-tree, as
they are represented in many of the paintings of the Crucifixion. But
we scarcely notice them, as all eyes are fixed on the Central Figure.
The man who takes the part of the Christus in this Divine Tragedy, has
made a study of it for years, and must have trained himself to great
physical endurance for a scene which must tax his strength to the
utmost. His arms are extended, his hands and feet seem to be pierced
with the nails, and flowing with blood. Even without actual wounds the
attitude itself must be extremely painful. How he could support the
weight of his body in such a posture was a wonder to all. It was said
that he rested one foot on something projecting from the cross, but
even then it seemed incredible that he could sustain such a position
for more than a single instant. Yet in the performance of the Passion
Play it is said that he remains thus suspended twenty minutes, and is
then taken down, almost in a fainting condition.
Some may ask, How did the sight affect me? Twenty-four hours before I
could not have believed that I could look upon it without a feeling of
horror, but so skilfully had the points of the sacred drama been
rendered thus far, that my feelings had been wound up to the highest
pitch, and when the curtain rose on that last tremendous scene, I was
quite overcome, the tears burst from my eyes, I felt as never before,
under any sermon that I ever heard preached, how solemn and how awful
was the tragedy of the death of the Son of God. So excited were we,
and to appearance all in the building, that it was a relief when the
curtain fell.
As if to give a further relief to the over-wrought feelings of the
audience, occasioned by this mournful sight, the next scene was of a
different character. It was not the Resurrection, though it might have
been intended to symbolize it, as in it the actor appears as if he had
been brought back from the dead. It is the story of Joseph, which is
introduced to illustrate the method of Divine Providence, by which is
brought "Light out of Darkness." We see the aged form of Jacob, bowed
with grief at the loss of his son. Then comes the marvellous
succession of events by which the darkness is turned to light.
Bewildered at the news of his son being in Egypt, at first he cannot
believe the good tidings, till at length convinced, he rises up
saying "Joseph my son, is yet alive; I will go and see him before I
die." Then follows the return to Egypt, and the meeting with him who
was dead and is alive again, when the old man falls upon his neck, and
Joseph's children (two curly-headed little fellows whom we had the
privilege of kissing before the day was over) were brought to his
knees to receive his blessing. This was a domestic rather than a
tragic scene, and such is the natural pathos of the story, that it
touched every heart.
The last scene of all was the Ascension, which was less impressive
than some that had gone before, as it could of course only be
imperfectly represented. The Saviour appears standing on the mount,
with outstretched hands, in the midst of his disciples, but there the
scene ends, as it could go no further; there could be no descending
cloud to receive him out of their sight.
With this last act the curtain fell. The whole representation had
occupied three hours.
Now as to the general impression of this extraordinary scene: As a
piece of _acting_ it was simply wonderful. The parts were filled
admirably. The characters were perfectly kept. Even the costumes were
as faithfully reproduced as in any of those historical dramas which
are now and then put upon the stage, such as tragedies founded on
events in ancient Greek or Roman history, where the greatest pains are
taken to render every detail with scrupulous fidelity. This is very
extraordinary, especially when it is considered that this is all done
by a company of Bavarian peasants, such as might be found in any
Alpine village. The explanation is, that this representation is _the
great work of their lives_. They have their trades, like other poor
people, and work hard for a living. But their great interest, that
which gives a touch of poetry to their humble existence, and raises
them above the level of other peasants, is the representation of this
Passion Play. This has come down to them from their fathers. It has
been acted among them for two hundred years. There are traditions
handed down from one generation to another of the way in which this or
that part should be performed. In the long intervals of ten years
between one representation and another, they practice constantly upon
their several parts, so that at the last they attain a wonderful
degree of perfection.
As to the _propriety_ of the thing: To our cold Protestant ideas it
seems simply monstrous, a horrid travesty of the most sacred scenes in
the Word of God. So I confess it would appear to me if done by others.
_Anywhere else_ what I have witnessed would appear to me almost like
blasphemy; it would be _merely acting_, and that of the worst kind, in
which men assume the most sacred characters, even that of our blessed
Lord himself.
But this impression is very much changed when we consider that here
all this is done in a spirit of devotion. These Bavarian peasants are
a very religious people (some would prefer to call it superstition),
but whatever it be, it is _universal_. Pictures of saints and angels,
or of Christ and the Virgin Mary, are seen in every house; crosses and
images, and shrines are all along the roads. Call it superstition if
you will, but at least the feeling of religion, the feeling of a
Divine Power, is present in every heart; they refer everything to
supernatural agencies; they hear the voice of God in the thunder that
smites the crest of the hills, or the storm that sweeps through their
valleys.
And so when they come to the performance of this Passion Play, it is
not as unbelievers, whose offering would be an offence, "not being
mixed with faith in them that did it." They believe, and therefore
they speak, and therefore they act. And so they go through their parts
in the most devout spirit. Whenever the Passion Play is to be
performed, all who are to take part in it _first go to the communion_;
and thus with hearts penitent and subdued, they come to assume these
sacred characters, and speak these holy words.
And so, while the attempt to transport the Passion Play anywhere else
would be very repulsive, it may be left where it is, in this lonely
valley of the Bavarian mountains, an unique and extraordinary relic of
the religious customs of the Middle Ages.
But while one such representation is quite enough, and we are well
content that it should stand alone, and there should be not another,
yet he must be a dull observer who does not derive from it some useful
hints both as to the power of the simplest religious truth, and the
way of presenting it.
Preachers are not actors, and when some sensational preachers try to
introduce into the pulpit the arts which they have learned from the
stage, they commonly make lamentable failures. To say that a preacher
is theatrical, is to stamp him as a kind of clerical mountebank. And
yet there is a use of the dramatic element which is not forced nor
artificial, which on the contrary is the most simple and natural way
of speaking. The dramatic element is in human nature. Children use
gestures in talking, and vary their tones of voice. They never stand
stiff as a post, as some preachers do. The most popular speakers are
dramatic in their style. Cough, the temperance lecturer, who has
probably addressed more and larger audiences in America and Great
Britain than any other man living, is a consummate actor. His art of
mimicry, his power of imitating the expression of countenance and
tones of voice, is wonderful. And our eloquent friend Talmage, in
Brooklyn, owes much of his power to the freedom with which he walks up
and down his platform, which is a kind of stage, and throws in
incidents to illustrate his theme, often acting, as well as relating
them, with great effect.
But not only is the dramatic element in human nature, it is in the
Bible, which runs over with it. The Bible is not merely a volume of
ethics. It is full of narrative, of history and biography, and of
dialogue. Many of the teachings of our Saviour are in the form of
conversations, of which it is quite impossible to give the full
meaning and spirit, without changes of manner and inflections of
voice. Take such an exquisite portion of the Old Testament as the
story of Ruth, or that of Joseph and his brethren. What an outrage
upon the sacred word to read such sweet and tender passages in a dull
and monotonous voice, as if one had not a particle of feeling of their
beauty. One might ask such a reader "Understandest thou what thou
readest?" and if he is too dull to learn otherwise, these simple
Bavarian peasants might teach him to throw into his reading from the
pulpit a little of the pathos and tenderness which they give to the
conversations of Joseph with his father Jacob.
Of course, in introducing the dramatic element into the pulpit, it is
to be done with a close self-restraint, and with the utmost delicacy
and tenderness. But so used, it may subserve the highest ends of
preaching. Of this a very illustrious example is furnished in the
annals of the American pulpit, in the Blind Preacher of Virginia, the
impression of whose eloquence is preserved by the pen of William Wirt.
When that venerable old man, lifting his sightless eyeballs to heaven,
described the last sufferings of our Lord, it was with a manner
adapted to the recital, as if he had been a spectator of the mournful
scene, and with such pathos in his tones as melted the whole assembly
into tears, and the excitement seemed almost beyond control; and the
stranger held his breath in fear and wonder how they were ever to be
let down from that exaltation of feeling. But the blind man held them
as a master. He paused and lifted his hands to heaven, and after a
moment of silence, repeated only the memorable exclamation of
Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a
God!" In this marvellous eloquence the preacher used the dramatic
element as truly as any actor in the Passion Play, the object in both
cases being the same, to bring most vividly before the mind the life
and death of the Son of God.
And is not that the great object, and the great subject, of all our
preaching? The chief lesson which I have learned to-day, concerns not
the _manner_, but the _substance_, of what we preach. This Passion
Play teaches most impressively, that the one thing which most
interests all, high and low, rich and poor, is the simple story of
Jesus Christ, and that the power of the pulpit depends on the
vividness with which Christ and His Cross are brought, if not before
the _eyes_, at least before the _minds_ and hearts of men. It is not
eloquent essays on the beauty of virtue, or learned discussions on the
relations of Science and Religion, that will ever touch the heart of
the world, but the old, old story of that Divine life, told with the
utmost simplicity and tenderness. I think it lawful to use any object
which can bring me nearer to Him. That which has been conceived in
superstition may minister to a devout spirit. And so I never see one
of these crosses by the roadside without its turning my thoughts to
Him who was lifted up upon it, and in my secret heart I whisper, "O
Christ, Redeemer of the world, be near me now!"
Some, I know, will think this a weak sentimentalism, or even a sinful
tolerance of superstition. But with all proper respect for their
prejudices, I must hail my Saviour wherever I can find Him, whether in
the city or the forest, or on the mountain. What a consolation there
is in carrying that blessed image with us, wherever we go! How it
stills our beating hearts, and dries our tears, to think of Him who
has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows! Often do I repeat to
myself those sweet lines of George Herbert:
Christ leads us through no darker rooms
Than He went through before;
Whoso into God's kingdom comes
Must enter by this door.
I do not like to speak of my own feelings; for they are too private
and sacred, and I shrink from any expression of them. But all this
summer, while wandering in so many beautiful scenes, among lakes and
mountains, I have felt the strongest religious craving. I have been
looking for something which I did not find either in the populous
city, or in the solitary place where no man was. Something had
vanished from the earth, the absence of which could only be supplied
by an invisible presence and spiritual grace. Amid great scenes of
nature one is very lonely; and especially if there be a hidden weight
that hangs heavy on the heart, he feels the need of a Presence of
which "The deep saith, It is not in me," and Nature saith, "It is not
in me." What is this but the human soul groping after God, if haply it
may find him? The psalmist has expressed it in one word, when he says,
"My heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God." How often has
that cry been wrung from my heart in lonely and desolate hours, when
standing on the deck of a ship, or on the peak of a mountain! And
wherever I see any sign of religion, I am comforted; and so as I look
around, and see upon all these hills the sign of the cross, I think of
Him who died for me, and the cry which has so often been lifted up in
distant lands, goes up here from the heart of the Bavarian Alps: "O
Lamb of God, that takest away the sin of the world, grant me Thy
peace!"