Poets have been busy for many years putting the Passion Play into rhythm. The Bavarian Government had omitted from it everything frivolous. The chorus would be that of drilled choirs. Men and women who had never been out of the sight of the mountains which guarded their homes would do with religious themes what the David Garricks and the Macreadys and the Ristoris and the Charlotte Cushmans did with secular themes. On a stage as unpretentious as foot ever trod there would be an impersonation that would move the world. The greatest tragedy of all times would find fit tragedian. We were not there that August morning to see an extemporised performance. As long ago as last December the programme for this stupendous rendering was all made out. No man or woman who had the least thing objectionable in character or reputation might take part.
The Passion Council, made up of the pastor of the village church and six devout members, together with the Mayor and ten councillors selected for their moral worth, assembled. After special Divine service, in which heaven's direction was sought, the vote was taken, and the following persons were appointed to appear in the more important parts of the Passion Play: Rochus Lang, Herod; John Zwink, Judas; Andreas Braun, Joseph of Arimathea; Bertha Wolf, Magdalen; Sebastian Baur, Pilate; Peter Rendi, John; William Rutz, Nicodemus; Thomas Rendi, Peter; Anna Flunger, Mary; Anton Lang, Christ.
The music began its triumphant roll, and the curtains were divided and pulled back to the sides of the stage. Lest we repeat the only error in the sacred drama, that of prolixity, we will not give in minutiæ what we saw and heard. The full text of the play is translated and published by my friend, the Reverend Doctor Dickey, pastor of the American Church of Berlin, and takes up 169 pages, mostly in fine print.
I only describe what most impressed me.
There is a throng of people of all classes in the streets of Jerusalem, by look and gesture indicating that something wonderful is advancing. Acclamations fill the air. The crowd parts enough to allow Christ to pass, seated on the side of a colt, which was led by the John whom Jesus especially loved. The Saviour's hands are spread above the throng in benediction, while He looks upon them with a kindness and sympathy that win the love of the excited multitude. Arriving at the door of the Temple, Jesus dismounts and, walking over the palm branches and garments which are strewn and unrolled in His way, He enters the Temple, and finds that parts of that sacred structure are turned into a marketplace, with cages of birds and small droves of lambs and heifers which the dealers would sell to those who wanted to make a "live offering" in the Temple. Indignation gathers on the countenance of Christ where gentleness had reigned. He denounces these merchants, who stood there over-reaching in their bargains and exorbitantly outrageous in their charges. The doors of the cages holding the pigeons are opened, and in their escape they fly over the stage and over the audience. The table on which the exchangers had been gathering unreasonable percentage was thrown down, and the coin rattled over the floor, and the place was cleared of the dishonest invaders, who go forth to plot the ruin and the death of Him who had so suddenly expelled them.
The most impressive character in all the sacred drama is Christ.
The impersonator, Anton Lang, seems by nature far better fitted for this part than was his predecessor, Josef Mayr, who took that part in 1870, 1880, and 1890. Mayr is very tall, brawny, athletic. His hair was black in those days, and his countenance now is severe. He must have done it well, but I can hardly imagine him impersonating gentleness and complete submission to abuse. But Anton Lang, with his blonde complexion, his light hair, blue eyes and delicate mouth, his exquisiteness of form and quietness of manner, is just like what Raphael and many of the old masters present. When we talked with Anton Lang in private he looked exactly as he looked in the Passion Play. This is his first year in the Christ character, and his success is beyond criticism. In his trade as a carver of wood he has so much to do in imitating the human countenance that he understands the full power of expression. The way he listens to the unjust charges in the court room, his bearing when the ruffians bind him, and his manner when, by a hand, thick-gloved so as not to get hurt, a crown of thorns was put upon his brow, and the officers with long bands of wood press it down upon the head of the sufferer, all show that he has a talent to depict infinite agony.
No more powerful acting was ever seen on the stage than that of John Zwink, the Judas. In repose there is no honester face in Ober-Ammergau than his. Twenty years ago he appeared in the Passion Play as St. John; one would suppose that he would do best in a representation of geniality and mildness. But in the character of Judas he represents, in every wrinkle of his face, and in every curl of his hair, and in every glare of his eye, and in every knuckle of his hand with which he clutches the money bag, hypocrisy and avarice and hate and low strategy and diabolism. The quickness with which he grabs the bribe for the betrayal of the Lord, the villainous leer at the Master while seated at the holy supper, show him to be capable of any wickedness. What a spectacle when the traitorous lips are pressed against the pure cheek of the Immaculate One, the disgusting smack desecrating the holy symbol of love.
But after Judas has done his deadly work then there comes upon him a remorse and terror such as you have never seen depicted unless you have witnessed the Passion Play at the foot of the Bavarian mountains. His start at imaginary sounds, his alarm at a creaking door, his fear at nothing, the grinding teeth and the clenched fist indicative of mental torture, the dishevelled hair, the beating of his breast with his hands, the foaming mouth, the implication, the shriek, the madness, the flying here and there in the one attempt to get rid of himself, the horror increased at his every appearance, whether in company or alone, regarded in contrast with the dagger scene of "Macbeth" makes the latter mere child's play. That day, John Zwink, in the character of Judas, preached fifty sermons on the ghastliness of betrayal. The fire-smart of ill-gotten gain, the iron-beaked vulture of an aroused conscience; all the bloodhounds of despair seemed tearing him. Then, when he can endure the anguish no longer, he loosens the long girdle from his waist and addresses that girdle as a snake, crying out:—
"Ha! Come, thou serpent, entwine my neck and strangle the betrayer," and hastily ties it about his neck and tightens it, then rushes up to the branch of a tree for suicide, and the curtain closes before the 4,000 breathless auditors.