CHAPTER VII.

THE PASSION PLAY.

Day was dawning. The first rays of the morning sun, ever broader and

brighter, were darting through the air, whose blue waves surged and

quivered under the flaming couisers of the ascending god of day.

Aphrodite seemed to have bathed and left her veil in the foam of the

wild mountain stream into which the penitent Magdalene had tried to

throw herself. Apollo in graceful sport, had gathered the little white

clouds to conceal the goddess and they waved and fluttered merrily in

the morning breeze around the rushing chariot. Then, as if the

thundering hoof-beats of the fiery chargers had echoed from the vaulted

arch of the firmament, the solemn roar of cannon announced the approach

of the _other_ god, the poor, unassuming, scourged divinity in His

beggar-garb. The radiant charioteer above curbed his impatient steeds

and gazed down from his serene height upon the conflict, the torturing,

silent conflict of suffering upon the bloody battlefield of the

timorous earth. Smiling, he shook his divine head, for he could not

understand the cause of all this. Why should a god impose upon Himself

such misery and humiliation! But he knows that He was a more powerful

god, for _he_ was forced to fly from the zenith when the former rose

from His grave.--So thought Helios, glancing over at the gentle goddess

Selene, whose wan face, paling in his presence, was turned full toward

the earth. She could not bear to behold the harrowing spectacle, she

was the divinity of peace and slumber, so, averting her mild

countenance, she bade Helios farewell and floated away to happier

realms.

Blest gods, ye who sit throned in eternal beauty, eternal peace; ye who

are untouched by the grief and suffering of the human race, who descend

to earth merely to taste the joys of mortals when it pleases ye to add

them to your divine delights, look down upon the gods whom sorrowing

humanity, laden with the primeval curse, summoned from his heaven to

aid, where none of ye aided, to give what none of ye gave, _the heart's

blood of love!_ Gaze from your selfish pleasures, ye gay Hellenic

deities, behold from your Valhalla, grim divinities of the Norsemen,

look hither, ye dull, stupid idols of ancient India, hither where, from

love for the human race, a god bleeds upon the martyr's cross--behold

and turn pale! For when the monstrous deed is done, and the night has

passed. He will cast aside His humble garb and shine in His divine

glory. Ye will then be nothing but the rainbow which shimmers in

changeful hues above His head! "Excelsior!" echoes a voice through the

pure morning-sky and: "Gloria in excelsis, Deo!" peals from the church,

as the priests chant the early mass.

An hour later the prince stopped before the door in a carriage to

convey the countess to the Passion Theatre, for the way was long and

rough.

He gave the Gross sisters strict orders to have everything ready for

Countess Wildenau's departure at the close of the performance.

"The carriages must stand packed with the luggage before the theatre

when we come out. The new maid must not be late."

Madeleine von Wildenau made no objection to all this, she was very pale

and deeply agitated. Ludwig Gross, who was also just going to the

theatre, was obliged to enter the carriage, too; the countess would

listen to no refusal. The prince looked coldly at him. Ludwig Gross

raised his hat, saying courteously:

"May I request an introduction?"

The lady blushed. "Herr Gross, head-master of the drawing-school!" She

paused a moment in embarrassment, Ludwig's bronze countenance still

retained its expectant expression.

"The Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim," said the prince, relieving

the countess' embarrassment, and raising his hat.

The drawing-master's delicate tact instantly perceived Prince Emil's

generous intention.

"Pardon me," he said, with a shade of bashfulness, "I did not know that

I was in the presence of a gentleman of such high rank--"

"No, no, you were perfectly right," interrupted Prince Emil, who was

pleased with the man's modest confidence, and immediately entered into

conversation with him. He asked various questions, and Ludwig described

how he was frequently compelled to get suitable figures for his tableau

from the forests and the fields, because the better educated people all

had parts assigned to them, and how difficult it was to work with this

untrained material; especially as he had barely two or three minutes to

arrange a tableau containing three hundred persons.

The countess gazed absently at the motley throngs surging toward the

Passion Theatre. The fresh morning breeze blew into the carriage. All

nature was full of gladness, a festal joy which even the countess'

richly caparisoned horses seemed to share, for they pranced gaily and

dashed swiftly on as if they would fain vie with the sun-god's steeds

above. The Bavarian flags on the Passion Theatre fluttered merrily

against the blue sky, and now another discharge of cannon announced the

commencement of the performance. The carriage made its way with much

difficulty through the multitude to the entrance, which was surrounded

by natives of Ammergau. Ludwig Gross ordered the driver to stop, and

sprang out. All respectfully made way for him, raising their hats: "Ah,

Herr Gross! The drawing-master! Good-day!"

"Good-day," replied Ludwig Gross, then unceremoniously giving the

countess his arm, requested the prince to follow and led them through

several side passages, to which strangers were not admitted, into the

space reserved for boxes, where two fine-looking young men, also

members of the Gross family, the "ushers" were taking tickets. Ludwig

lifted his hat and left them to go to his work. The prince shook hands

with him and expressed his thanks. "A cultured man!" he said, after

Ludwig had gone. Meanwhile one of the ushers had conducted the countess

to her seat.

There directly before her lay the long-desired goal! A huge

amphitheatre built in the Greek style. Between the boxes, which

overlooked the whole, and the stage, under the open sky, extended a

vast space, whose seats rose to the height of a house. The orchestra,

too, was roofless, as also were the proscenium and the stage, at whose

extreme right and left stood the houses of Pilate and Caiaphas, between

which stretched the streets of Jerusalem. The chorus was stationed on

the proscenium and here all the great scenes in which the populace took

part were performed. The main stage, occupying the centre only, as in

the Greek theatre, was a temple-like covered building with a curtain,

in a certain sense a theatre within a theatre, where the scenes that

required a smaller frame were set. Beyond, the whole was surrounded by

the amphitheatre of the lofty mountains gazing down in majestic repose,

surmounting and crowning all.

The orchestra was playing the last bars of the overture and the surging

and hum of the thousands who were finding their seats had at last

ceased. The chorus came forward, all the singers clad in the Greek

costume, at their head as choragus Johannes Diemer, arrayed in diadem

and toga. A majestic figure of true priestly dignity, he moved across

the stage, fully imbued with the spirit of the sublime drama which it

was his honorable office to open. Deep silence now reigned throughout

the audience. It seemed as if nature herself was listening outside, the

whispering morning breeze held its breath, and not a single bird-note

was heard. The repose of the Sabbath spread its wings protectingly over

the whole scene, that nothing should disturb this consecrated mood.

As the stately figures advanced wearing their costly robes with as much

dignity as if they had never been clad in any other garments, or would

be forced again to exchange them for the coarse torn blouse of toil; as

they began to display the art acquired with such self-sacrificing

devotion after a wearisome day of labor, and the choragus in the

purest, noblest intonation began the first lines:

"Sink prostrate, overwhelmed with sacred awe,

Oh, human race, bowed by the curse of God!"

the countess' heart was suddenly stirred by a new emotion and tears

filled her eyes.

"Eternal God, Thy stammering children hear,

For children's language, aye, is stammering."

In these words the devout lips expressed the sacred meaning underlying

the childish pastime, and those who heard it feel themselves once more

children--children of the one omnipresent Father.

The prologue was over. The curtain of the central stage rolled up, and

the first tableau, the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise, was

revealed. Countess Madeleine gazed at it with kindly eyes, for Ludwig

Gross' refined artistic instinct was visible to her, his firm hand had

shaped the rude material into these graceful lines. A second tableau

followed--the Adoration of the Cross. An empty cross, steeped in light,

stood on a height worshipped by groups of children and angels. The

key-note was thus given and the drama began.--The first scene was

before the temple at Jerusalem--the Saviour's entry was expected.

Madeleine von Wildenau's heart throbbed heavily. She did not herself

know the cause of her emotion--it almost robbed her of breath--will it

be _he_ whom she expects, to whom she is bound by some incomprehensible,

mysterious spell? Will she find him?

Shouts of "Hosanna!" echoed from the distance--an increasing tumult was

audible. A crowd of people, rejoicing and singing praises, poured out

of the streets of Jerusalem--the first heralds of the procession

appeared, breathlessly announcing His approach.

An indescribable fear overpowered the countess--but it now seemed to

her as if she did not dread the man whom she expected to see, but Him

he was to personate. The audience, too, became restless, a vibrating

movement ran like a faint whisper through the multitude: "He is

coming!"

The procession now poured upon the stage, a surging mass--passionately

excited people waving palms, and in their midst, mounted on a miserable

beast of burden--the Master of the World.

The countess scarcely dared to look, she feared the dismounting, which

might shock her aesthetic sense. But lightly as a thought, with scarcely

a movement, he had already slipped from the animal, not one of the

thousands saw how.

"It is he!" Madeleine's brain whirled, an unspeakable joy overwhelmed

her: "When shall I behold thee face to face!" her own words, spoken the

evening before, rang in her ears and--the realization was standing

before her.

"The Christ!"--a thrill of reverence stirred the throng. Aye, it was

He, from head to foot! He had not uttered a word, yet all hearts sank

conquered at his feet. Aye, that was the glance, the dignity, the

calmness of a God! That was the soul which embraced and cherished a

world--that was the heart of love which sacrificed itself for man--died

upon the cross.

Now the lips parted and, like an airy, winged genius the words soared

upward: A voice like an angel's shouting through the universe: "Peace,

peace on earth!"--now clear and resonant as Easter bells, now gentle

and tender as a mother's soothing song beside the bed of her sick

child. "Source of love--thou art He!"

Mute, motionless, as if transfigured, the countess gazed at the

miracle--and with her thousands in the same mood. But from her a secret

bond stretched to him--from her alone among the thousands--a prophetic,

divine bond, woven by their yearning souls on that night after she had

beheld the face from which the God so fervently implored now smiled

consent.

The drama pursued its course.

Christ looked around and perceived the traders with their wares, and

the tables of the money-changers in the court of the temple. As cloud

after cloud gradually rises in the blue sky and conceals the sun, noble

indignation darkened the mild countenance, and the eyes flashed with a

light which reminded Helios, watching above, of the darts of Zeus.

"My House," saith the Lord, "shall be called a house of prayer, but ye

have made it a den of thieves!" And as though His wrath was a power,

which emanating from Him acted without any movement of His, a hurricane

seemed to sweep over the stands of the traders, while not a single

vehement motion destroyed the calmness of the majestic figure. The

tables were overthrown, the money rolled on the ground, the cages of

the doves burst open, and the frightened birds soared with arrowy speed

over the heads of the spectators. The traders raged and shrieked, "My

doves, my doves! My money!" and rushed to save the silver coins and

scattered wares. But He stood motionless amid the tumult, like the

stone of which He said: "Whosoever shall fall upon that stone shall be

broken; but on whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder."

Then, with royal dignity. He swung the scourge over the backs bowed to

seize their paltry gains. "Take these things hence, make not my

Father's house a house of merchandise!" He did not strike, yet it

seemed as though the scourge had fallen, for the dealers fled in wild

confusion before the uplifted hand, and terror seized the Pharisees.

They perceived that He who stood before them was strong enough to crush

them all! His breath had the might of the storm, His glance was

consuming flame--His lash felled without striking--He need only will,

and "in three days" He would build a new temple as He boasted. Roaring

like the sea in a tempest, the exulting populace surrounded Him,

yielding to His sway as the waves recede before the breath of the

mighty ruler.--Aye, this was the potent spirit of the Jehovah of the

Jews, the Zeus of the Greeks, the Jupiter of the Romans. This man was

the Son of the God who created Heaven and earth, and it would be an

easy matter for the Heir of this power to crush the Pharisees without

stirring a finger--if He desired, but that was the point; it was _not_

His will, for His mission was a different one! The head once more

drooped humbly, the brow, corrugated with anger, smoothed. "I have done

my Father's bidding--I have saved the honor of His House!" The storm

died away into a whisper, and the mild gaze rested forgivingly upon His

foes.

The countess' virile heart almost rebelled against this humility, and

would fain have cried out: "Thou _art_ the Son of God, help Thyself!"

Her sense of justice, formed according to human ideas, was opposed to

this toleration, this sacrifice of the most sacred rights! Like Helios

in the vault above, she could not understand the grandeur, the divinity

of self humiliation, of suffering truth and purity to be judged by

falsehood and hypocrisy--instead of using His own power to destroy

them.

As if the personator of Christ suspected her thoughts he suddenly fixed

his glance, above the thousands of heads, directly upon her and like a

divine message the words fell from his lips: "But in many hearts, day

will soon dawn!" Then, turning with indescribable gentleness to His

disciples. He added: "Come, let us go into the temple and there worship

the Father!" He walked toward it, yet it did not seem as if his feet

moved; He vanished from the spectators' eyes noiselessly, gradually,

like the fleeting of a happy moment.

The countess covered her eyes with her hand--she felt as if she were

dreaming a sadly beautiful dream. The prince watched her silently, but

intently. Nods and gestures of greeting came from the boxes on all

sides--from the duchess, the diplomatic corps, and numerous

acquaintances who happened to be there--but the countess saw nothing.

The drama went on. It was the old story of the warfare of baseness

against nobility, falsehood against truth. The Pharisees availed

themselves of the injury to the tradesmen's interests to make them

their allies. The populace, easily deluded, was incited against the

agitator from "Galilee," who wished to rob them of the faith of their

fathers and drive the dealers from the temple. So the conspiracy arose

and swelled to an avalanche to crush the sacred head! Christ had dealt

a rude blow to all that was base in human nature, but baseness was the

greater power, to which even God must succumb while He remained a

dweller upon earth. But, even in yielding, He conquered--death bestowed

the palm of victory!

Between the first and second act was a tableau, "Joseph sold by his

Brethren." With thoughtful discrimination every important incident in

the Play was suggested by a corresponding event in the Old Testament,

represented by a tableau, in order to show the close connection between

the Old and the New Testament and verify the words: "that all things

which are written may be fulfilled."

At last the curtain rose again and revealed the Sanhedrim assembled for

judgment. Here sat the leaders of the people of Israel, and also of

Oberammergau. In the midst was Caiaphas, the High-priest, the Chief of

the Sanhedrim, the burgomaster of Ammergau and chief manager of the

Passion Play. At his right and left sat the oldest members of the

community of Ammergau, an old man with a remarkably fine face and long

white beard, as Annas, and the sacristan, an impressive figure, as

Nathanael. On both sides, in a wide circle, were the principal men in

the parish robed as priests and Pharisees. What heads! What figures!

The burgomaster, Caiaphas, rose and, with a brief address, opened the

discussion. Poor Son of God, how wilt Thou fare in the presence of this

mighty one of earth? The burgomaster was the type of the fanatical,

ambitious priest, not a blind, dull zealot--nay, he was the

representative of the aristocratic hierarchy, the distinguished men of

the highest intelligence and culture. A face rigid as though chiselled

from stone, yet animated by an intellect of diabolical superiority,

which would never confess itself conquered, which no terror could

intimidate, no marvel dazzel, no suffering move. Tall and handsome in

the very flower of manhood, with eyes whose glances pierced like

javelins, a tiara on his haughty head, robed in all the pomp of

Oriental priestly dignity, every clanking ornament a symbol of his

arrogant, iron nature, every motion of his delicate white hands, every

fold of his artistically draped mantle, every hair of his flowing beard

a proof of that perfect conscious mastery of outward ceremonial

peculiar to those who are accustomed to play a shrewdly planned part

before the public. Thus he stood, terrible yet fascinating, repellent

yet attractive, nay to the trained eye of an artist who could

appreciate this masterly blending of the most contradictory influences,

positively enthralling.

This was the effect produced upon Countess Wildenau. The feeling of

indication roused by the incomprehensible humiliation of the divine

Martyr almost tempted her to side with the resolute foe who manfully

defended his own honor with his god's. A noble-hearted woman cannot

withstand the influence of genuine intellectual manfulness, and until

the martyrdom of Christ became _heroism_, the firm, unyielding

high-priest exerted an irresistible charm over the countess. The

conscious mastery, the genius of the performer, the perfection of his

acting, roused and riveted the artistic interest of the cultivated

woman, and as, with the people of Ammergau, the individual and the

actor are not two distinct personages, as among professional artists,

she knew that the man before her also possessed a lofty nature, and the

nimbus of Ammergau constantly increased, the spirit ruling the whole

obtained still greater sway. The sacristan was also an imposing figure

as Nathanael, the second high-priest, who, with all the power of

Pharisaical superiority and sophistry, appeared as Christ's accuser.

The eloquence of these two judges was overpowered, and into the surging

waves of passion, Annas, in his venerable dignity, dropped with steady

hand the sharp anchor of cold, pitiless resolve. An imposing, sinister

assembly was this great Sanhedrim, and every spectator involuntarily

felt the dread always inspired by a circle of stern, cruel despots.

Poor Lamb, what will be Thy fate?

Destiny pursued its course. In the next act Christ announced His

approaching death to the disciples. Now it seemed as though He bore

upon His brow an invisible helm of victory, on which the dove of the

Holy Spirit rested with outspread wings. Now He was the hero--the hero

who _chose_ death. Yet meekness was diffused throughout His whole

bearing, was the impress of His being; the meekness which spares others

but does not tremble for itself. A new perception dawned upon the

countess: to be strong yet gentle was the highest nobility of the

soul--and as here also the character and its personator were one, she

knew that the men before her possessed these attributes: strength and

gentleness. Now her defiant spirit at last melted and she longed to

take Him to her heart to atone for the injustice of the human race. She

thanked Simon for receiving the condemned man under his hospitable

roof.

"Aye, love Him--I, too, love Him?" she longed to cry out to those who

were ministering to Him. But when Mary Magdalene touched and anointed

Him she averted her eyes, for she grudged her the privilege and thought

of her poor, beautiful penitent at home. As He uttered the words:

"Rise, Magdalene. Darkness is gathering, and the wintry storms are

raging. Yet be comforted! In the early morning, in the Spring garden,

thou wilt see me again!" tears streamed form her eyes; "When will the

morning dawn that I shall greet Thee--in the Spring garden, redeeming

love?" asked a voice in her heart.

But when Mary appeared and Christ took leave of His mother--when the

latter sank upon the breast of her divine son and He consoled her with

a voice whose sweetness no ear had ever heard equalled, a feeling which

she had never experienced took possession of her: it was neither envy

nor jealousy--only a sorrowful longing: "If I were only in her place!"

And when Christ said: "My hour is come; now is my soul troubled; and

what shall I say? Father, save me from this hour: but for this cause

came I unto this hour!" and Mary, remembering Simeon's words, cried:

"Simeon, thy prediction--'a sword shall pierce through thy own soul,

also'--is now fulfilled!" the countess, for the first time, understood

the meaning of the pictures of Mary with the seven swords in her heart;

her own was bleeding from the keenness of her anguish. Now, overpowered

with emotion, He again extended His arms: "Mother, mother, receive thy

son's fervent gratitude for all the love and faith which thou hast

bestowed in the thirty-three years of my life: Farewell, dear mother!"

The countess felt as if she would no longer endure it--that she must

sink in a sea of grief and yearning.

"My son, where shall I see Thee again?" asked Mary.

"Yonder, dear mother, where the words of the Scripture shall be

fulfilled: 'He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep

before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth.'" Then, while

the others were weeping over the impending calamity, Christ said: "Be

not overcome in the first struggle. Trust in me." And, as He spoke, the

loving soul knew that it might rest on Him and be secure.

He moved away. Serene, noble, yet humble, He went to meet His death.

The curtain fell--but this time there was no exchange of greetings from

the boxes, the faces of their occupants were covered to conceal the

tears of which they were ashamed, yet could not restrain.

The countess and her companion remained silent. Madeleine's forehead

rested on her hand--the prince was secretly wiping his eyes.

"People of God, lo, thy Saviour is near! The Redeemer, long promised,

hath come!" sang the chorus, and the curtain rising, showed Christ and

his disciples on the way to Jerusalem. It was the moment that Christ

wept over Jerusalem. Tears of the keenest anguish which can pierce the

heart of a God, tears for the sins of the world! "Jerusalem, Jerusalem,

if thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things

which belongs unto thy peace! But now they are hid from thine eyes."

The disciples entreated their Master not to enter the hostile city and

thus avoid the crime which it was destined to commit. Or to enter and

show Himself in His power, to judge and to reward.

"Children, what ye desire will be done in its time, but my ways are

ordered by my Father, and thus saith the Lord: 'My thoughts are not

your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.'"

And, loyal and obedient, He followed the path of death. Judas alone

lingered behind, resolving to leave the fallen greatness which promised

no earthly profit and would bring danger and disgrace upon its

adherents. In this mood he was met by Dathan, Andreas Gross, who was

seeking a tool for the vengeance of the money changers. Finding it in

Judas, he took him before the Sanhedrim.

An impressive and touching tableau now introduced a new period, the

gathering of manna in the wilderness, which refreshed the starving

children of Israel. A second followed: The colossal bunch of grapes

from Canaan. "The Lord miraculously fed the multitude in the desert

with the manna and rejoiced their hearts with the grapes of Canaan, but

Jesus offers us a richer banquet from Heaven. From the mystery of His

body and blood flows mercy and salvation!" sang the chorus. The curtain

rose again, Christ was at supper with His disciples. He addressed them

in words of calm farewell. But they did not yet fully understand, for

they asked who would be _first_ in His heavenly kingdom?

His only answer was to lay aside His upper garment, gird, with divine

dignity, a cloth about His loins, and kneel to perform for the

disciples the humblest service--_the washing of their feet_.

The human race looked on in breathless wonder--viewless bands of angels

soared downward and the demons of pride and defiance in human nature

fled and hid themselves in the inmost recesses of their troubled

hearts.

Aye, the strong soul of the woman, which had at first rebelled against

the patience of the suffering God--now understood it and to her also

light came, as He had promised and, by the omnipotent feeling which

urged her to the feet of Him who knelt rendering the lowliest service

to the least of His disciples, she perceived the divinity of

_humility_!

It was over. He had risen and put on His upper garment; He stood with

His figure drawn up to His full height and gazed around the circle:

"Now ye are clean, but not _all_!"--and His glance rested mournfully on

Peter, who before the cock crew, would deny Him thrice, and on Judas,

who would betray Him for thirty pieces of silver.

Then He again took His seat and, as the presentiment of approaching

death transfigures even the most commonplace mortal and illumines the

struggling soul at the moment of its separation from the body, so the

_God_ transfigured the earthly form of the "Son of Man" and appeared

more and more plainly on the pallid face, ere he left the frail husk

which He had chosen for His transitory habitation. And as the dying man

distributes his property among his heirs, _He_ bequeathed His. But He

had nothing to give, save Himself. As the cloud dissolves into millions

of raindrops which the thirsting earth drinks, He divided Himself into

millions of atoms which, in the course of the ages, were to refresh

millions of human beings with the banquet of love. His body and His

blood were his legacy. He divided it into countless portions, to

distribute it among countless heirs, yet it remained _one_ and the

_part_ is to every one _the whole_. For as an element remains a great

unity, no matter into how many atoms it may dissolve--as water is

always water whether in single drops or in the ocean--fire always fire

in sparks or a conflagration--so Christ is _always Christ_ in the drops

of the chalice and the particles of the bread, as well as in His

original person, for He, _too_, is an element, _the element of

divinity_.

As kindred kneel around the bedside of a loved one who is dying, bedew

his hand with tears, and utter the last entreaty: "Forgive us, if we

have ever wounded you?" the thousands of spectators longed to kneel,

and there was not one who did not yearn to press his lips to the

wonderful hand which was distributing the bread, and cry: "Forgive us

our sins." But as reverence for the dying restrains loud lamentations,

the spectators controlled themselves in order not to sob aloud and thus

disturb the divine peace throned upon the Conqueror's brow.

Destiny now relentlessly pursued its course. Judas sold his master for

thirty pieces of silver, and they were paid to him before the

Sanhedrim. The pieces of silver rang on the stone table upon which they

were counted out. It seemed as if the clear sound was sharply piercing

the world, like the edge of a scythe destined to mow down the holiest

things.

The priests exulted, there was joy in the camp of the foes! All that

human arrogance and self-conceit could accomplish, raised its head

triumphantly in Caiaphas. The regal priest stood so firmly upon

the height of his secular power that nothing could overthrow him,

and--Jesus of Nazareth must die!

So the evening came when Christ went with the twelve disciples to the

Mount of Olives to await His doom.

"Father, the hour is come; glorify thy Son, that thy Son may also

glorify thee! I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do--I

have manifested thy name unto men! Father, sanctify them through thy

truth; that they all may be one, as thou, Father, art in me and I in

thee!"

He climbed the lonely mount in the garden of olive trees to pass

through the last agony, the agony of death, which seized upon even the

Son of God so long as He was still bound by the laws of the human body.

"Father, if thou be willing, let this cup pass from me!"

Here Freyer's acting reached its height; it was no longer semblance,

but reality. The sweat fell in burning drops from his brow, and tears

streamed from his eyes. "Yet not _my_ will, but _Thine_ be done--Thy

sacred will!" Clasping his trembling hands, he flung himself prone on

the ground, hiding his tear-stained face, "Father--Thy son--hear Him!"

The throng breathed more and more heavily, the tears flowed faster. The

heart of all humanity was touched with the anguished cry: "Oh, sins of

humanity, ye crush me--oh, the terrible burden--the bitter cup!"

With this anguish the Son of God first drew near to the human race, in

this suffering He first bent down to mortals that they might embrace

Him lovingly like a mortal brother. And it was so at this moment, also!

They would fain have dragged Him from the threatening cross, defended

Him with their own bodies, purchased his release at any cost--too late,

_this_ repentance should have come several centuries earlier.

The hour of temptation was over. The disciples had slept and left him

alone--but the angel of the Lord had comforted Him, the angel whom God

sends to every one who is deserted by men. He was himself again--the

Conqueror of the World!

Judas came with the officers and pressed upon the sweet mouth on which

the world would fain hang in blissful self-forgetfulness--the traitor's

kiss.

"Judas, can you touch those lips and not fall at the feet of Him you

have betrayed?" cried a voice in Madeleine von Wildenau's heart. "Can

you _kiss_ the lips which so patiently endure the death-dealing caress,

and not find your hate transformed to love?" Ah, only the divine can

recognize the divine, only sympathetic natures attract one another!

Judas is the symbol of the godless world, which would no longer

perceive God's presence, even if He came on earth once more. The

soldiers, brawny fellows, fell to the ground as He stood before them

with the words: "I am Jesus of Nazareth!" and He was forced to say:

"Rise! Fear ye not!" that they might accomplish their work--but Judas

remained unmoved and delivered Him up.

Christ was a prisoner and descended step by step into the deepest

ignominy. But no matter through what mire of baseness and brutality

they dragged Him, haling Him from trial to trial--nothing robbed Him of

the majesty of the Redeemer! And if His speech had been full of power,

so was His silence! Before the Sanhedrim, before Herod, and finally

before Pilate, _He_ was the king, and the mighty ones of earth were

insignificant in _His_ presence.

"Who knows whether this man is not the son of some god?" murmured the

polytheistic Romans--and shrank from the mystery which surrounded the

silent One.

The impression here was produced solely by Freyer's imposing calmness

and unearthly eyes. The glance he cast at Herod when the latter ordered

him to perform a miracle--darken the judgment chamber or transform a

roll of papyrus into a serpent--that one glance, full of dignity and

gentleness, fixed upon the poor, short-sighted child of the dust was a

greater miracle than all the conjuring tricks of the Egyptian

Magicians.

But this very silence, this superiority, filled the priest with furious

rage and hastened His doom, which He disdained to stay by a single

word.

True, Pilate strove to save Him. The humane Roman, with his

aristocratic bearing, as Thomas Rendner personated him with masterly

skill, formed a striking contrast to the gloomy, fanatical priests, but

he was not the man for violent measures, and the furious leaders

understood how to present this alternative. The desire to conciliate,

the refuge of all weak souls which shrink in terror from catastrophes,

had already wrested from him a shameful concession--he had suffered the

Innocent One to be delivered to the scourge.

With clenched teeth the spectators beheld the chaste form, bound to the

stake and stained with blood, quiver beneath the lashes of the

executioner, without a murmur of complaint from the silent lips. And

when He had "had enough," as they phrased it, they placed him on a

chair, threw a royal mantle about Him, and placed a sceptre of reeds in

the hand of the mock-king. But He remained mute. The tormentors grew

more and more enraged--they wanted to have satisfaction, to gloat over

the moans of the victim--they dealt Him a blow in the face, then a

second one. Christ did not move. They thrust Him from the chair so that

He fell on the ground--no one ever forgot the beautiful, pathetic

figure--but He was still silent! Then one of the executioners brought a

crown made of huge thorns; He was raised again and the martyr's diadem

was placed upon His brow. The sharp thorns resisted, they would not fit

the noble head, so His tormentors took two sticks laid cross-ways, and

with them forced the spiked coronals so low on His forehead that drops

of blood flowed! Christ quivered under the keen agony--but--He was

silent! Then He was dragged out of His blood, a spectacle to the

populace.

Again Helios above gave the rein to his radiant coursers--he thought of

all the horrors in the history of his divine House, of the Danaides, of

the chained Prometheus, and of others also, but he could recall nothing

comparable to _this_, and _loathed the human race_! Averting his face,

he guided his weary steeds slowly downward from the zenith.

The evening breeze blew chill upon the scene of agony.

A furious tumult filled the streets of Jerusalem. The priests were

leading the raging mob to the governor's house--fanning their wrath to

flame with word and gesture. Caiaphas, Nathanael, the fanatics of

Judaism--Annas and Ezekiel, each at the head of a mob, rushed from

three streets in an overwhelming concourse. The populace surged like

the angry sea, and unchaining yet dominating the elements with word and

glance the lofty figure of Caiaphas, the high priest, towered in their

midst.

"Shake it off! Cast from you the yoke of the tempter!"

"He has scorned Moses and the prophets--He has blasphemed God--to the

cross with the false Messiah!"

"May a curse rest on every one who does not vote for his death--let him

be cut off from the hereditary rights of our fathers!"

Thus the four leaders cast their watchword like firebrands among the

throngs, and the blaze spread tumultuously.

"The Nazarene must die--we demand judgment," roared the people. New

bands constantly flocked in. "Oh, fairest day of Israel! Children, be

resolute! Threaten a general insurrection. The governor wished to hear

the voice of the people--let him hear it!" shrieked Caiaphas, and his

passion stirred the mob to fiercer fury. All pressed forward to the

house of Pilate. The doors opened and the governor came out. The

handsome, classic countenance of the Roman expressed deep contempt, as

he surveyed the frantic mob. Behind him appeared the embodiment of

sorrow--the picture of all pictures--the Ecce Homo--which all the

artists of the world have striven to represent, yet never exhausted the

subject. Here it stood personified--before the eyes of men, and even

the governor's voice trembled as he pointed to it.

"Behold, _what_ a man!"

"Crucify him!" was the answer.

Pilate endeavored to give the fury of the mob another victim: the

criminal Barabbas was brought forth and confronted with Christ. The

basest of human beings and the noblest! But the spectacle did not move

them, for the patience and serenity of the Martyr expressed a grandeur

which shamed them all, and _this_ was the intolerable offense! The

sight of the scourged, bleeding body did not cool their vengeance

because they saw that the spirit was unbroken! It _must_ be quelled,

that it might not rise in judgment against them, for they had gone too

far, the ill-treated victim was a reproach to them--he could not be

suffered to live longer.

"Release Barabbas! To death with the Nazarene, crucify him!"

Vainly the governor strove to persuade the people. The cool,

circumspect man was too weak to defy these powers of hatred--he would

fain save Christ, yet was unwilling to drive the fanatics to extremes.

So he yielded, but the grief with which he did so, "to avert a greater

misfortune," absolved him from the terrible guilt whose curse he cast

upon the leaders' head.

The expression with which he pronounced the sentence, uttered the

words: "Then take ye Him and crucify Him!" voices the grief of the man

of culture for eternal beauty.

The bloodthirsty mob burst into a yell of exultation when their victim

was delivered to them--now they could cool their vengeance on Him! "To

Golgotha--hence with him to the place of skulls!"

Christ--and Thy sacrifice is for _these_. Alas, the day will come,

though perchance not for thousands of years, when Thou wilt perceive

that they were not _worthy_ of it. But that will be the day of

judgment!

A crowd surged though the streets of Jerusalem--in their midst the

condemned man, burdened with the instrument of his own martyrdom.

In one corner amid the populace stood Mary, surrounded by a group of

friends, and the mother beheld her son urged forward, like a beast

which, when it falls, is forced up with lashes and pressed on till it

sinks lifeless.

High above in the vaulted heavens, veiled by the gathering dude of

evening, the gods whispered to one another with secret horror as they

watched the unprecedented sight. Often as they might behold it, they

could never believe it.

The procession stopped before a house--Christ sank to the earth.

A man came out and thrust Him from the threshold.

"Hence, there is no place here for you to rest."

Ahasuerus! The tortured sufferer looked at him with the gaze of

a dying deer--a single mute glance of agony, but the man on whom

it fell nevermore found peace on earth, but was driven from every

resting-place, from land to land, from one spot to another--hunted on

ceaselessly through the centuries--wandering forever.

"He will die on the road"--cried the first executioner, Christ had

dragged Himself a few steps forward, and fell for the second time.

"Drive him on with blows!" shrieked the Pharisees and the people.

"Oh! where is the sorrow like unto my sorrow?" moaned Mary, covering

her face.

"He is too weak, some one must help him," said the executioner. He

could not be permitted to die there--the people must see Him on the

pillory.

His face was covered with sweat and blood--tears flowed from His eyes,

but the mute lips uttered no word of complaint. Then His friends

ventured to go and render whatever aid was permitted. Veronica offered

Him her handkerchief to wipe His face, and when He returned it, it bore

in lines of sweat and blood, the portrait which, throughout the ages,

has exerted the silent magic of suffering in legend and in art.

Simon of Cyrene took the cross from the sinking form to bear it for Him

to Golgotha, and the women of Jerusalem wept. Christ was standing by

the roadside exhausted, but when He saw the women with their children,

the last words of sorrow for their lost ones rose from His heart to His

lips:

"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and

your children."

"For, behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say: Blessed

are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never

gave suck!"

"Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us; and to the

hills. Cover us."

"For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the

dry?"

"Drive the women away! Spare him no longer--hence to the place of

execution!" the priests commanded.

"To Golgotha--Crucify him!" roared the people. The women were driven

away; another message from the governor was unheeded, the procession

moved steadily on to death.

But Mary did not leave Him. With the few faithful friends she joined

her son's march of suffering, for the steadfastness of maternal love

was as great as her anguish.

There was a whispering and a murmuring in the air as if the Valkyries

and the gods of Greece were consulting whether they should aid the Son

of Man. But they were powerless; the sphere of the Christian's god was

closed against them.

The scene changed. The chorus, robed in sable mourning cloaks, appeared

and began the dirge for the dying God. The simple chant recalled an

ancient Anglo-Saxon song of the cross, composed in the seventh century

by the skald Caedmon, and which for more than a thousand years lay

buried in the mysterious spell of the rune.

[4]Methought I saw a Tree in mid-air hang

Of trees the brightest--mantling o'er with light-streaks;

A beacon stood it, glittering with gold.

All the angels beheld it,

Angel hosts in beauty created.

Yet stood it not a pillory of shame.

Thither turned the gaze

Of spirits blessed,

And of earthly pilgrims

Of noblest nature.

This tree of victory

Saw I, the sin-laden one.

Yet 'mid the golden glitter

Were traces of honor.

Adown the right side

Red drops were trickling.

Startled and shuddering

Noted I the hovering vision

Suddenly change its hue.

Long lay I pondering

Gazing full sadly

At the Saviour's Rood.

When lo, on my ear

Fell the murmur of speech;

These are the words

The forest uttered:

"Many a year ago,

Yet still my mind holds it,

Low was I felled.

The dim forest within

Hacked from my roots,

Haled on by rude woodmen

Bracing sinewy shoulders

Up the steep mountain side,

Till aloft on the summit

Firmly they fastened me.

"I spied the Frey[5] of man with eager haste

Approach to mount me; neither bend nor break

I durst, for so it was decreed above

Though earth about me shook.

"Up-girded him then the young hero,

That was God Almighty,

Strong and steady of mood,

Stept he on the high gallows:

Fearless amongst many beholders

For he would save mankind.

Trembled I when that 'beorn' climbed me,

But I durst not bow to earth."

There hung the Lord of Hosts

Swart clouds veiled the corpse,

The sun's light vanished

'Neath shadows murk.

While in silence drear

All creation wept

The fall of their king.

Christ was on Rood--

Thither from afar

Men came hastening

To aid the noble one.

Everything I saw,

Sorely was I

With sorrows harrowed,

Yet humbly I inclined

To the hands of his servants

Striving much to aid them.

Now from the Rood

The mighty God,

Spear-pierced and blood-besprent,

Gently men lowered;

They laid him down limb-weary,

They stood at the lifeless head,

Gazing at Heaven's Lord,

And he there rests awhile,

Weary after his mickle death-fight.

Such was the paean of Caedmon, mighty among the writers of runes, in

the seventh century after the Saviour's death. Now, twelve centuries

later, it lived again, and the terrible event was once more enacted,

just as the skald had sung, just as it happened nearly two thousand

years ago.

What is space, what is time to aught that is rooted in love?

The dirge of the chorus had died away. A strange sound behind the

curtain accompanied the last verses--the sound of hammering--could it

be? No, it would be too horrible. The audience heard, yet _would_ not

hear. A deathlike stillness pervaded the theatre--the blows of the

hammer became more and more distinct--the curtain rolled upward--there

He lay with His feet toward the spectators, flat upon the cross. And

the executioners, with heavy blows, drove nails through His limbs; they

pierced the kind hands which had never done harm to any living

creature, but wherever they were gently laid, healed all wounds and

stilled all griefs; the feet which had borne the divine form so lightly

that it seemed to float over the burning sand of the land and the

surging waves of the sea, always on a mission of love. Now He lay in

suffering on the ground, stretched upon the accursed timbers--half

benumbed, like a stricken stag. At the right and left stood the lower

crosses of the two criminals. These men merely had their arms thrown

over the cross-beams and tied with ropes, only the feet were fastened

with nails. Christ alone was nailed by both hands and feet, because the

Pharisees were tortured by a foreboding that He could not be wholly

killed. Had they dared, they would have torn Him to pieces, and

scattered the fragments to the four winds, in order to be sure that He

would not rise on the third day, as He had predicted.

The executioners had completed the binding of the thieves. "Now the

King of the Jews must be raised."

"Lift the cross! Take hold!" the captain commanded. The spectators held

their breath, every heart stood still! The four executioners grasped it

with their brawny arms. "Up! Don't let go!"

The cross is ponderous, the men pant, bracing their shoulders against

it--their veins swell--another jerk--it sways--"Hold firm! Once

more--put forth your strength!" and in a wide sweep it moved

upward--all cowered back shuddering at the horrible spectacle.

"It is not, It cannot be!" Yet it is, it can be! Horror thrilled the

spectators, their limbs trembled. One grasped another, as if to hold

themselves from falling. It was rising, the cross was rising above the

world! Higher--nearer! "Brace against it--don't let go!"

It stood erect and was firm.

There hung the divine figure of sorrow, pallid and wan. The nails were

driven through the bleeding hands and feet--and the eye which would

fain deny was forced to witness it, the heart that would have

prevented, was compelled to bear it. But the scene could be endured no

longer, the grief restrained with so much difficulty found vent in loud

sobs, and the hands trembling with a feverish chill were clasped with

the _same_ feeling of adoring love. Unspeakable compassion was poured

forth in ceaseless floods of tears, and rose gathering in a cloud of

pensive melancholy around the head of the Crucified One to soothe His

mortal anguish. By degrees their eyes became accustomed to the scene

and gained strength to gaze at it. Divine grace pervaded the slender

body, and--as eternal beauty reconciles Heaven and hell and

transfigures the most terrible things--horror gradually merged into

devout admiration of the perfect human beauty revealed in chaste repose

and majesty before their delighted gaze. The countess had clasped her

hands over her breast. The world lay beneath her as if she was floating

above with Him on the cross. She no longer knew whether he was a _man_

or Christ Himself--she only knew that the universe contained _nothing_

save that form.

Her eyes were fixed upon the superhuman vision, tear after tear

trickled down her cheeks. The prince gazed anxiously at her, but she

did not notice it--she was entranced. If she could but die now--die at

the foot of the cross, let her soul exhale like a cloud of incense,

upward to Him.

Darkness was gathering. The murmuring and whispering in the air drew

nearer--was it the Valkyries, gathering mournfully around the hero who

scorned the aid. Was it the wings of the angel of death? Or was it a

flock of the sacred birds which, legend relates, strove to draw out the

nails that fastened the Saviour to the cross until their weak bills

were crooked and they received the name of "cross-bills."

The sufferer above was calm and silent. Only His lambent eyes spoke,

spoke to those invisible powers hovering around Him in the final hour.

Beneath His cross the soldiers were casting lots for His garments--the

priests were exulting--the brute cynicism was watching with wolfish

greed for the victim to fall into its clutches, while shouting with

jeering mocking: If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross!

He trusted in God; let Him deliver Him now, if He will have Him!--

"Thou that destroyest the temple and buildest it in three days, save

thyself. Show thy power, proud King of the Jews!"

The tortured sufferer painfully turned His head.

"Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.--"

Then one of the malefactors, even in his own death agony, almost mocked

Him, but the other rebuked him; "We receive the due reward of our

deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss!" Then he added

beseechingly: "Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom."

Christ made the noble answer: "Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt

thou be with me in paradise."

There was a fresh roar of mockery from the Pharisees. "He cannot save

himself, yet promises the kingdom of heaven to others."

But the Saviour no longer heard, His senses were failing; He bent His

head toward Mary and John. "Woman, behold thy son! Son, behold thy

mother!"

The signs of approaching death appeared. He grew restless--struggled

for breath, His tongue clung to His palate.

"I thirst."

The sponge dipped in vinegar was handed to him on a long spear.

He sipped but was not refreshed. The agony had reached its climax:

"Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" He cried from the depths of His

breaking heart, a wonderful waving motion ran through the noble form in

the last throes of death. Then, with a long sigh, He murmured in the

tones of an AEolian harp: "It is finished! Father, into Thy hands I

commend my spirit!" gently bowed his head and expired.

A crashing reverberation shook the earth. Helios' chariot rolled

thundering into the sea. The gods fled, overwhelmed and scattered by

the hurrying hosts of heaven. Dust whirled upward from the ground and

smoke from the chasms, darkening the air. The graves opened and sent

forth their inmates. In the mighty anguish of love, the Father rends

the earth as He snatches from it the victim He has too long left to

pitiless torture! The false temple was shattered, the veil rent--and

amid the flames of Heaven the Father's heart goes forth to meet the

maltreated, patient, obedient Son.

"Come, thou poor martyr!" echoed yearningly through the heavens. "Come,

thou poor martyr!" repeated every spectator below.

Yet they were still compelled to see the beloved body pierced with a

sharp lance till the hot blood gushed forth--and it seemed as if the

thrust entered the heart of the entire world! They were still forced to

hear the howling of the wolves disputing over the sacred corpse--but at

last the tortured soul was permitted to rest.

The governor's hand had protected the lifeless body and delivered it to

His followers.

The multitude dispersed, awe-stricken by the terrible portents--the

priests, pale with terror, fled to their shattered temple. Golgotha

became empty. The jeers and reviling had died away, the tumult in

nature had subsided--and the sacred stillness of evening brooded over

those who remained. "He has fulfilled His task--He has entered into the

rest of the Father." The drops of blood fell noiselessly from the

Redeemer's heart upon the sand. Nothing was heard save the low sobbing

of the women at the foot of the cross.

Then pitying love approached, and never has a paean of loyalty been sung

like that which the next hour brought. The first blades were now

appearing of that love whose seed has spread throughout the world!

Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus came with ladders and tools to take

down the body.

Ascending, they wound about the lifeless form long bands of white

linen, whose ends they flung down from the cross. These were grasped by

the friends below as a counterpoise to lower it gently down. Joseph and

Nicodemus now began to draw out the nails with pincers; the cracking

and splintering of the wood was heard, so firm was the iron.

Mary sat on a stone, waiting resignedly, with clasped hands, for her

son. "Noble men, bring me my child's body soon!" she pleaded softly.

The women spread a winding sheet at her feet to receive it.

At last the nails were drawn out and--

"Now from the rood

The mighty God

Men gently lowered."

Cautiously one friend laid the loosened, rigid arms of the dead form

upon the other's shoulders, that they might not fall suddenly, Joseph

of Arimathea clasped the body: "Sweet, sacred burden, rest upon my

shoulders."

He descended the ladder with it. Half carried, half lowered in the

bands, the lifeless figure slides to the foot of the instrument of

martyrdom.

Nicodemus extended his arms to him: "Come, sacred corpse of my only

friend, let me receive you."

They bore Him to Mary--

"They laid Him down limb-weary

They stood at the lifeless head."

that the son might rest once more in the mother's lap.

She clasped in her arms the wounded body of the son born in anguish the

second time.

Magdalene knelt beside it. "Let me kiss once more the hand which has so

often blessed me." And with chaste fervor the Penitent's lips touched

the cold, pierced hand of the corpse.

Another woman flung herself upon Him. "Dearest Master, one more tear

upon Thy lifeless body!" And the sobbing whisper of love sounded sweet

and soothing like vesper-bells after a furious storm.

But the men stood devoutly silent:

"Gazing at Heaven's Lord,

And He there rests awhile

Weary after his mickle death-fight."