Christmas stories

by Mary Jane Holmes

As a general thing, he was well sustained. Judas was inimitable, and considering the character he had to take, may almost be said to be better than Joseph Maier himself. With the latter every heart was in sympathy, while for Judas there naturally could be but one feeling, and that of indignation, but so powerfully was he tempted by the artful Pharisees, and so hard and long did he struggle against the temptation, and so bitter was his repentance when the deed was done, that you have only a deep sympathy for him as he stands alone by himself and gives vent to his remorse. I can see him now so plainly as he walked the stage, wringing his hands in his despair, and catching at his long gray hair as he lamented his folly, and with bitter cries mourned for the dear friend he had betrayed. You do not see him hang himself, but you see him make a rush at the mountain ash, placed there for that purpose, and which hardly looks as if it would sustain him. But the curtain falls in time to shut out any inconsistencies, and poor Judas “goes to his own place,” and is seen no more.

Next to Judas in point of acting comes rash, impetuous and cowardly Peter, who, even if you did not know the story, would impress you as a loving, true hearted man, sure to weep bitterly over the denial called forth by fear, and to be among the first to seek the tomb of the risen Saviour.

John, the beloved, was a little too tame and quiet for the part he took, while Magdalen was an utter failure. One great feature of the play was the perfect self-forgetfulness of the actors, but this did not apply to Magdalen, whose self-consciousness was so apparent and whose voice was so unnatural and peculiar that we were sorry when she appeared and glad when she left the stage. Her personal appearance was quite contrary to one’s idea of the Magdalen, to whom the old masters always gave long, flowing hair of a reddish or golden hue, for hers was dark and so short and thin that to wipe one’s feet with it was an utter absurdity. She might, of course, have called in art to her assistance, and worn hair of wondrous length and thickness, but such deceptions are unknown to the Magdalen of Oberammergau, whose locks were all her own, as were the few attractions she possessed. The Madonna, on the contrary, was excellent, with a fair, sweet face, which would lead us to question the propriety of selecting so young a person for the mother of Christ, if we did not know that the Bavarian peasantry believe in the perpetual youth and beauty of the Virgin Mary. The parting scene between the mother and her son before he goes up to Jerusalem is very touching and sad, for Mary’s heart is wrung with dismal forebodings of some evil which will befall her child, and her voice is full of pathos and entreaty, while with infinite love and tenderness he bends over her trying to reassure and comfort her. This is the third act, and after the supper in Simon’s house, where Mary anointed the Saviour’s head, and Judas was filled with horror at the useless expenditure of the three hundred pence.

The second act, of which I omitted to speak, represented the high priests in session, and consulting together how to secure the person of Christ. Conspicuous among these was Caiaphas, who was admirably represented by one of the Langs, and who never for an instant forgot the part he was acting, or ceased to be other than the proud and despotic man thirsting for the blood of the lowly Nazarene.

In the fourth act we had the temptation of Judas, and in the fifth the institution of the Lord’s Supper, when Christ washed his disciples’ feet, and foretold that one of them should betray him. Next we saw the Garden of Gethsemane, over which the shadows of night hung darkly, and where the Saviour, in his great agony, prayed for the cup to pass from him, if possible; while, a little apart, his disciples were sleeping heavily. In the distance and gradually approaching nearer, the sound of loud, excited voices and hurried footsteps was heard, as the Roman soldiers, with the Pharisees and chief priests, approached, led by Judas, who even then seemed to hesitate before giving the kiss of betrayal. The text of the history is here followed very closely, and ends with the captivity of the Saviour, who is borne away by the soldiers.

By this time it was nearly twelve, and an intermission of an hour was given, in which the spectators hurried to their lunch and were again in their places by the time the cannon in the meadows announced that the drama was about to be resumed.

As in the morning we followed the Saviour from his entry into Jerusalem up to his betrayal, so in the afternoon we followed him to his crucifixion and death, and saw him first before Annas, then before Caiaphas, and then before Pilate, who strove so hard to save him, and who, hoping to awaken the sympathy of the people for the man whose life they sought, ordered Barabbas to be brought forth and placed side by side with the noble captive. Where they picked up Barabbas is a marvel. With long grey hair, which looked as if it never had been combed, and a face from which you instinctively recoiled, he was led upon the stage by a halter or chain,—a marked contrast to the calm, quiet dignity of Joseph Maier, who, bound and bleeding from his recent scourging and the crown of thorns, stood beside him before the rabble thirsting for his blood and crying out, “Give us the Nazarene and let Barabbas go.”

Matters now are hurried on with great rapidity, and as the end comes nearer and nearer, the hush which all along has pervaded that vast concourse grows more and more profound, and the tension to which the peoples’ nerves are strung reaches its climax, when in the fifteenth act you see the long procession winding its way up to Calvary, with the white-faced, worn-out Saviour tottering under the weight of his heavy cross, while the brutal soldiery urge him to greater speed, and the infuriated mob rend the air with their shouts of hatred and derision. Then the tears which have so long been kept back overflow, and the heart throbs with a keen sense of love and pity and sympathy, not for Joseph Maier, but for the man Christ, to whom this, which now is only acting, was once a terrible reality, and who really trod the weary road to Calvary, and bore not only the ponderous cross but the sins of the whole world. Every one was more or less affected, and the silence of the audience was almost painful in its intensity, though broken occasionally by a suppressed whisper or low cry, as the crowd increased and the boisterous shouts grew louder and the mob hurried the Saviour on, until from sheer exhaustion he fell upon the ground, and the cross was finally laid upon the shoulders of Simon of Cyrene, who conveniently appeared with a carpenter’s basket on his arm. This ascent to Calvary is, I think, more effective and affecting than the crucifixion, which is, however, a most marvelous piece of acting, and seems terribly real as you gaze at the central figure upon the cross, and fancy you see the death struggle from the beginning, until the white, worn face drops downward, and you are glad with a great gladness that all is over.

Thenceforward there is more stir among the people, and the tired ones, who have sat so long, unmindful of fatigue, change their positions and breathe more freely as they wait for the scene of the resurrection. This, some critics say, might be omitted—that the play is long enough without it; but I hardly agree with them, for what would the crucifixion avail without the rising from the dead? And when at last the rock is rolled away and Jesus is alive again and speaks to the loving Mary, you experience something of the same thrill you feel on Easter morning, and your thoughts go back to the dear home church across the sea, where you have so often heard the Easter bells and joined in the Easter songs. Loudly and joyfully the singers take up the chorus, “He is risen, He is risen,” and if your tongue were tuned to their language you would almost join them in their exultant strains. But a tableau representing the ascension is to follow, and you sit quietly till that is over; then, singing the final hallelujah chorus, the Schutzgeister slowly retire from the stage and the play is over, and we leave the theatre with a feeling that we have witnessed something which for all time to come, will, like some earnest, heart-stirring sermon, repeat itself over and over again in our minds, until we are made better by it.

THE END.