"The Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim," said the prince, relieving the countess" embarra.s.sment, 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 a.s.signed 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 Pa.s.sion 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-G.o.d"s steeds above. The Bavarian flags on the Pa.s.sion 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 mult.i.tude 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 pa.s.sages, to which strangers were not admitted, into the s.p.a.ce 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 coa.r.s.e 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, n.o.blest intonation began the first lines:

"Sink prostrate, overwhelmed with sacred awe, Oh, human race, bowed by the curse of G.o.d!"

the countess" heart was suddenly stirred by a new emotion and tears filled her eyes.

"Eternal G.o.d, 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 mult.i.tude: "He is coming!"

The procession now poured upon the stage, a surging ma.s.s--pa.s.sionately 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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d 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, n.o.ble 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 d.u.c.h.ess, 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 n.o.bility, 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 G.o.d must succ.u.mb 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 a.s.sembled 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 Pa.s.sion 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 princ.i.p.al 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d"s. A n.o.ble-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 pa.s.sion, Annas, in his venerable dignity, dropped with steady hand the sharp anchor of cold, pitiless resolve. An imposing, sinister a.s.sembly 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 n.o.bility 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 grat.i.tude 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, n.o.ble, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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.