Kitabı oku: «From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn», sayfa 12

Often in my dreams I think of that better time which is coming, when even pleasure shall be sanctified; when no human joy shall be cursed by being mixed with sin and followed by remorse; when all our happiness shall be pure and innocent, such as God can smile upon, and such as leaves no sting behind. That will be a happy world, indeed, when mutual love shall bless all human intercourse:

 
Then shall wars and tumults cease,
Then be banished grief and pain;
Righteousness, and joy, and peace,
Undisturbed, shall ever reign.
 

CHAPTER XVII.
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 fête 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 fête. 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!"