Christmas stories

by Mary Jane Holmes

There are but few reserved seats, and as these are taken weeks in advance, our tickets merely entitled us to seats in a certain platz, or division, without designating any particular spot.

The theatre is plain and unpretending outwardly, being built wholly of boards, with no attempt at ornament of any kind. Inside it is also very simple and has evidently never had much money expended upon it. Its auditorium is 118 feet wide by 168 feet deep, and it occupies an area of nearly 20,000 square feet, and is capable of seating an audience of from 5,000 to 6,000 people. There are visible to the spectator five distinct places of action. First is the proscenium for choruses and processions, and as this part of the stage is not under cover, the singers are always exposed to the weather, and stand, a part of the time, with the sun shining directly in their faces. When it rains they have no alternative but to bear it, and we were told that they sometimes sang with umbrellas over their heads.

The second place is the central stage for the tableaux vivants and the usual dramatic scenes; the third and fourth, which are reached by stairs, are the palace of Annas and the palace of Pilate, while the fifth represents the streets of Jerusalem.

Thus there is plenty of room, and never any undue crowding, even when hundreds are on the stage, as in some of the tableaux. In front of, and facing the theatre proper, is the long area occupied by the spectators and divided into compartments varying in price from eight marks ($2) to one mark (25 cents). The eight-mark seats are reserved, and have backs, but all the others are simply benches, with nothing to lean upon, and those nearest the stage, in the one-mark places, have no cover of any kind; consequently, when it rains or the sun is very hot, those unfortunate enough to be in that locality are neither comfortable nor happy, especially as umbrellas are not allowed to be raised on account of those behind, whose view would be obstructed. And yet, in default of getting any thing better, these places are eagerly sought after, and some stand through the entire play rather than not see it.

The broad space overhead is left open for the sake of the beautiful landscape, which adds greatly to the effect. Casting your eye over and beyond the stage, you see directly in front the quiet valley, with the Ammer flowing through it; to the right are steep hillsides clothed with grass, and dotted here and there with trees of fir, while to the left and farther back Mt. Kofel lifts his cross-crowned head, and looks down upon the play. A more lovely background could not be devised, and when the eye was tired with the scenes upon the stage it was such a rest to let it wander away to the green fields beyond, even if it did detect a wicked Oberammergauer fishing complacently in the river, unmindful of the commandment respecting the Sabbath day. Perhaps he thought he was quite as well occupied as we, and others may think so, too, but these have never seen the Passion Play, and do not know how forcible is the lesson it teaches, or how real it makes what before has seemed so misty and vague to those who cannot easily grasp the man Christ and make him seem human and life-like.

By half-past seven the theatre was full of eager, curious people, gathered from all parts of the world, and from every station in life, from the nobility of aristocratic England down to the lowly peasant of the Tyrol. Even royalty is sometimes represented, but the “blue box” set apart for it was vacant to-day, for the Duke of Edinburgh, though expected, it was rumored, did not come, and only Lord Houghton and Lady Stanley and Lady George Gordon drew the eyes of the curious in that direction. At last, the booming of the cannon was heard again, and then over the waiting thousands there fell a hush of expectancy, while the orchestra played a sweet and simple overture. Could we then have looked behind the curtain which shut the stage from us, a novel and touching sight, such as is not often seen upon the boards of a theatre, would have met our view. Five hundred people kneeling in silent prayer and asking God’s blessing upon what they were about to do. Again the booming of the cannon was heard, followed quickly by the third and last. It was eight o’clock; the curtain was drawn, the chorus of singers appeared upon the stage, and the “Passion Play” we had come so far to see, had commenced.

As most of our readers know, the Passion Play is performed in fulfillment of a vow made by the people in 1633, when a fearful pestilence was ravaging the villages in the valley. For a long time Oberammergau was free from the plague, owing to the strictness of the sanitary precautions; but it was brought to them at last by a laborer, who had been working in an infected district, and who succeeded in entering the town to see his wife and children. In a day or two he was dead, and so rapidly did the disease spread, that in thirty-three days eighty-four persons belonging to the village died. Then it was that the terrified inhabitants met together and made a solemn vow that if God would remove the dreadful scourge they would perform the Passion Play every ten years. From that time there were no more deaths in Oberammergau, and the play was acted the following year, 1634. The decaded period, however, was not chosen until 1680, and since that time the play has been performed every ten years, with more or less interruptions. It must, however, have been known to the peasantry of Bavaria before 1633, as history speaks of it at a much earlier period. Since 1634 it has undergone many changes and modifications and been stripped of much that was absurd and offensive. Once the devil was a constant actor upon the stage, and used to dance around Judas during the temptation, and when at last the betrayer hanged himself, a host of demons rushed upon him, as if to bear him away to endless torment. Later, too, the spectators were wont to groan and hiss when he appeared, and even pelt him with dirt and stones, so that it was difficult to find a man with sufficient nerve to take the part of Judas. Now, however, this is changed, and the good taste of the Geistlicher-Rath Daisenberger, is perceptible in every part of the play. In 1870 the play was broken up by the Franco-German war. Forty of the Ammergauers were called into the Bavarian army, and among them Joseph Maier, the Christus of that year. When the news of peace reached the valley, fires were lighted on every mountain top from the Adenwald to the Tyrol, and the villagers resolved to give a repetition of the play by way of thanksgiving. It was a great success, and thousands of tourists went to witness it, all of whom were loud in their praises of Joseph Maier, whose acting cannot be excelled, and who, after the burgomaster, is looked up to by the peasantry as a man second only in importance to the good Daisenberger himself. But of him I shall speak more particularly by and bye. I wish now to describe the opening scene, which heralded the beginning of the play.

The chorus of Schutzgeister, or Guardian Angels, as they are called, is a peculiar feature of the Ammergau stage and adds greatly to the interest. The chorus consists of twenty-six singers, and the leader is styled the Prologue, or choragus. Immediately after the third and last cannon they appear, thirteen on a side, and march slowly and solemnly into line. Their dresses are of various colors, and over them a white tunic or colored mantle is worn, giving them a picturesque and oriental appearance. Among them are several young women, some of whose faces are very pretty and sweet, and they seem to feel that it is a religious duty rather than a pleasure to stand thus before the five thousand pairs of eyes gazing so fixedly at them. Each act of the play is preceded by one or two tableaux vivants, as symbols or prophecies of scenes in the life of Christ, and it is the part of the choragus, or chief singer, to describe these tableaux and the lesson they are intended to teach. This he does in song, his companions taking up the chorus at intervals, and making the whole very impressive and interesting, especially as some of the solos are finely rendered, in voices clear and sweet, if not highly cultivated. The song or recitation ended, the choragus steps backwards and with half the singers marches to the left of the stage, while the other half retire to the right, where they stand motionless as statues, while the curtain is withdrawn from the inner stage, and the tableau is exposed to view for two or three minutes, while, watch as closely as you may, you cannot detect the slightest movement in the mass of humanity so artistically grouped together.

The first tableau represented Adam and Eve being driven from the Paradise, which lay in the background, while, conspicuous in the center of the garden, was the tree of life, laden with fruit, and among its branches, the tempter, in the form of a serpent, was coiled. The second tableau, which follows immediately after the close of the chorus, revealed a large cross planted on a rock, with crowds of children dressed in white kneeling around it in a worshiping attitude. The prayers the children are supposed to be saying, are sung by the chorus, who retire from the stage, and the first act of the great drama commences.

Shouts of rejoicing and notes of glad singing were faintly heard, seeming at first so far away that one could easily believe they came from the green hilltops, seen over and beyond the theatre; nearer and nearer they came, until the long procession appeared in view, and the shouts and singing grew louder, as the thronging crowds, carrying palms in their hands, welcomed to Jerusalem their master. Then it is that you see Joseph Maier—the central figure of the play—the one on whom every eye is fixed whenever he appears, and the sight of whom makes your heart throb faster as you remember that the scenes you look upon were once a reality, when Jerusalem opened wide her gates, and her streets resounded with the loud hosannas of the multitude doing honor to the man riding in their midst. A better Christus than Joseph Maier could not have been selected. Tall, finely formed, with a sad, pale face, and long, flowing hair, he impresses you at once, and your first thought is what a splendid looking man, and how well fitted for his part—a conviction which deepens as the play progresses, and you watch him in all the varied situations he has to fill. Not a trace of self-consciousness is ever perceptible in his manner, which is always dignified and self-possessed, like one who feels himself the master. His voice is clear, and full, and rich, and you find yourself constantly listening for it, especially toward the last, when the musical tones are full of anguish or tender expostulation and disappointment, as he says to his sleeping disciples: “Could ye not watch with me one hour?”