THE PASSION PLAY.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume V, Issue 52, 27 December 1890, Page 8

THE PASSION PLAY.

■ T <»berau rhe Oberammergau tourist takes leave of the crowded railroad train and conj '’l'SA\ signs himself ami his chattels to one of a line 7; ? of vehicles, the diversity of which is simply yastounding. Yellow omnibuses with hard, uncomfortable wooden seats; elegant private /TT* equipages of all descriptions ; light, quickly travelling buggies, |>easant waggons and carts. And a- to their contents, it was a perfect defile of the various types and nationalities of the Passion guests. The sturdy jieasant from Lower Bavaria in his long black Sunday coat, with the silver coins in place where buttons ought to be. sits tranquilly by the side of a pretty young girl from Munich : the puff-sleeved farmer s wife from Suabia nods beside the English reverend in sombre black broadcloth, and the country pastor and the Dame de la Mode, the dude and the simple, modest burgher and Albion's yellow-haired, red-faced son in an airay which reminds us of De Fregger's ‘ city swell,’and the swarthy, dark-haired slave from the Russian provinces: the moneyscattering American and the thrifty small merchant from the interior. A curious, interesting mixture, one and all, at tracted by the remarkable and unique play ]>erformed by the quaint mountain folks. When one arrives at their destination, the village itself presents a holiday appearance. Its principal streets look like those almost of a well-frequented summer resort, but in it.- byways it has preserved the character of the simple village that is clean and tidy everywhere. Like the chalets of the Tyrol, the houses of Obeiammergau are decorated with images of saints. The colours are fresh and new, the walls are nicely whitened. It is obvious at a glance that the village lias donned its best toilet in honour of the visitors. Many of the villagers have turned their hou-es into hotels, restaurants, pensions—and there is even to be seen a ■ boarding house’ sign. There are cafes, confectioneries and other exotic herbs, reminding one of the city and cosmopolitan life, but on closer inspection all these localities develop into rejuvenated country inns, despite the swallow-tailed waiters, ‘gorgeous’ bills of fare and, horrible dictu, ‘ drop-a-penny-in-the-slot ’ chocolate automatons.

Near the Passion Theat re a little city of booths has sprung up. where photographs of the ‘ Passion Play ’ and the village and its environments are sold, besides all kinds of mementos, principally wood carvings and viands of all descriptions, from the crisp, brown chicken roasted on the spit to the sausage, which frizzles in the fat in the big black pan. What a multi-coloured, tumultuous, busy picture this is on the days on which the play takes place, but only on those days. On off days the village subsides into quiet stillness : the booths are .closed and emptied of their contents, the hotels are dead, the porters and waiters spend their time in playing cards, the hundred various vehicles seem to have been swept from the face of the earth.

<in Friday the first instalment of visitors arrives. On Saturday they come in droves, the taverns and inns begin to swarm, every available space is occupied. The village, which numbers' about 1.300 inhabitants, is prepaied to furnish with beds at least 3,000 strangers, while as many more can be stowed away on mattresses, straw-beds and in haylofts. The contingent which arrives on Sunday morning is mostly composed of the |»easants of the neighbouring country, interspersed with a fair sprinkling of tourists from Munich, which, as we know, is the capital of the land, close by. The play is scarcely over when the huge structure pours forth its Hood of human beings, who make a break for their respective vehicles, which form a perfect bulwark from the theatre to the church. These scenes are repeated on Monday and Tuesday morning, but on Wednesday and Thursday the place is wrapped in profound peacefulness. The salaries which the players receive are but nominal. They are intended simply as an indemnity for the time lost from their daily labours and the expenses connected therewith. In 1880 Christus-Mayer received 1,000 marks or £5O : Pilate was paid £lO, and Caiaphas, who also fills the difficult position of manager of the play, was allotted £4O. Beginning with thirty shillings for children and ‘supes,’ the salaries range all the way up to £3O. For this small compensation the actors are compelled to play some forty different times from eight o'clock in the morning until five'o'clock in the evening, in good or bad weather, and always under the open sky. These people are closely allied with the ‘ Passion Play.' In other places, following the spirit of the times, the children play soldiers; heretheyplay ‘passion.’ Several little lad had made a cross, which one, imitating the Christ, ctrried on the wav to Golgotha, while a second assumed the part of Caiaphas and a third played the Roman. All this was done with so much touching self oblivion and childish innocence that it destroyed every thought of a profanation of the holy act. Since 1870 Christus Mayer has affixed his autograph to his pictures more than 9000 times. If he hail a thousand heads instead of one there would not have been a single hair left on any of them, had he yielded to every request for a tiny curl of his hair. The little anecdote of the donkey, on which Christus-Mayer rode into Jerusalem during the play of 1880 bears rejieating. An enthusiastic Englishwoman bought the animal from Mayer. For years she wrote to him regularly almut the health and condition of the <lonkey : ami at last came the sad news of its death • The dear little donkey died,’ she wrote. ‘We have buried it in the garden. Peace l« to its ashes.’ The exterior of the players has much to do with their se lection of the different parts, which rests in the hands of a committee of twelve. This year the committee has l>een unexceptionally fortunate in its selections. The part of Mary is executed splendidly by a new artist. It is sai 1 that it has never lieen represented lietter. John and Herod are fine. Frau von Hillern, the well-known author of ‘ GeyerWally’ and ‘Au Kreuz,'her latest novel based upon the • Passion Play,' assures me that whatever Mayer may have lost in outward appearance by advancing years, he has gained within. He has never represented Christ with so much perfect finish, and I can easily comprehend how this man, at the noon tide of his life, who must have carried many an invisible cross and crown of thorns, can fully and wholly represent the sufferings of the Saviour.