Of All The Highland Villages,
Ober-Ammergau By Means Of A Strictly Enforced Quarantine Alone Kept,
For A While, The Black Foe At Bay.
No soul was allowed to leave the
village; no living thing to enter it.
"But one dark night Caspar Schuchler, an inhabitant of Ober-
Ammergau, who had been working in the plague-stricken neighbouring
village of Eschenlohe, creeping low on his belly, passed the drowsy
sentinels, and gained his home, and saw what for many a day he had
been hungering for - a sight of his wife and bairns. It was a
selfish act to do, and he and his fellow-villagers paid dearly for
it. Three days after he had entered his house he and all his family
lay dead, and the plague was raging through the valley, and nothing
seemed able to stay its course.
"When human means fail, we feel it is only fair to give Heaven a
chance. The good people who dwelt by the side of the Ammer vowed
that, if the plague left them, they would, every ten years, perform
a Passion Play. The celestial powers seem to have at once closed
with this offer. The plague disappeared as if by magic, and every
recurring tenth year since, the Ober-Ammergauites have kept their
promise and played their Passion Play. They act it to this day as a
pious observance. Before each performance all the characters gather
together on the stage around their pastor, and, kneeling, pray for a
blessing upon the work then about to commence. The profits that are
made, after paying the performers a wage that just compensates them
for their loss of time - wood-carver Maier, who plays the Christ,
only receives about fifty pounds for the whole of the thirty or so
performances given during the season, to say nothing of the winter's
rehearsals - is put aside, part for the temporal benefit of the
community, and the rest for the benefit of the Church. From
burgomaster down to shepherd lad, from the Mary and the Jesus down
to the meanest super, all work for the love of their religion, not
for money. Each one feels that he is helping forward the cause of
Christianity."
"And I could also speak," I add, "of grand old Daisenberger, the
gentle, simple old priest, 'the father of the valley,' who now lies
in silence among his children that he loved so well. It was he, you
know, that shaped the rude burlesque of a coarser age into the
impressive reverential drama that we saw yesterday. That is a
portrait of him over the bed. What a plain, homely, good face it
is! How pleasant, how helpful it is to come across a good face now
and then! I do not mean a sainted face, suggestive of stained glass
and marble tombs, but a rugged human face that has had the grit, and
rain, and sunshine of life rubbed into it, and that has gained its
expression, not by looking up with longing at the stars, but by
looking down with eyes full of laughter and love at the human things
around it."
"Yes," assented B. "You can put in that if you like.
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