Vermilion School of Agriculture - Yearbook (Vermilion, Alberta Canada)

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ove for self-expression which is, in truth, a part of their very nature. Small wonder, then, that we find in our host a man with poise, dignity and charm, for has not the greatest honor that it is possible to confer been conferred on him? Time is precious and, supper over, we set forth on foot to explore this village which has so much to offer us. The streets are crowded, mostly with American and English visitors. The villagers themselves, accustomed to this periodical invasion from the outside world, seem little disturbed by it. Still more visitors arrive by bus and we begin to wonder where they will find a home for the night. The difficulty is apparently solved, for by I I o’clock the streets are almost deserted. People have gone to bed. We follow, for a full day is ahead of us; the performance is to start at 8 o’clock. It is not difficult to find the theatre. It stands at the far end of the town in the Passion meadow. As we view it for the fi rst time we wonder what the villagers of 1600 A.D. would have thought of this massive building, accustomed as they were to performing the play in the church itself and in the churchyard. Indeed, it was not until about the year 1830 that the play was held in a rough open air theatre on the present site. No makeshift building this, but commodious, well planned, and so designed that any one of the five thousand people in it can follow the play without difficulty. The stage itself represents the city of Jerusalem. On either side stand the houses of Pilate and Herod with broad steps leading up to them, and in the centre, the covered middle stage designed to house the living pictures as well as those scenes which take place in a closed room. Between the spectators and the fore-stage is placed the orchestra. Save for the central portion, the stage is open so that above the streets of Jerusalem the blue sky appears, and the forests of Kirchegg and Mount Horndle for a back¬ ground the rugged natural beauty of which gives a most impressive setting. There is a chill to the early morning air, and, with a four hour sitting ahead of us (the whole play lasts eight hours with a two hour interval for lunch), we wrap our rugs closely around us. It is eight o’clock. One by one the chorus file onto the stage and take up their places on either side, leaving the central stage exposed to view. There are twenty-six female and nineteen male singers and, but for the difference in stature, it is difficult at a distance to tell them apart. With the chorus is Anton Lang, the impersonator of Christ for the past two decades, who during the 1930 performance is to speak the prologue. After a short prelude the curtain is drawn aside and the first of the twenty-four tableaux which occur at the beginning of each act, is before us. It is emblematic of the Fall of Man and shows the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. As in many of the tableaux which follow, the figures are so motionless that we can scarcely believe them to be living men and women. The Prologue, a second tableau, and then, of a sudden, a noise of singing and joyful acclamation. Down the narrow street past Pilate’s house comes a multitude of people singing “Hosannah to the Son of David,’ and strewing palms in the way of Christ, as riding on the side of an ass’ colt, He enters Jerusalem. How quickly is the scene to change! One by one the incidents in the life of Christ are presented with a vividness and reality that, lor a group of humble artisans, is truly amazing. Every word is spoken in German, but such is the artistic skill of the actors ' , so faithful is their interpretation, so full of meaning is their every gesture, that we have no difficulty in following the English translation of the play. A description of the play and players is, of course, impossible here; indeed, such is not the purpose of this article. Suffice it to mention one or two of the most remarkable scenes in the play. Of these, the two tableaux which foreshadow the Last Supper are marvellous displays of grouping hundreds of persons in a comparatively small space. The first is the gathering of manna in the wilderness; the second the return of the spies from the promised land with a bunch of grapes so colossal as to cause two strong men to stagger beneath its weight. The whole of the stage is a mosaic of heads and hands. Four hundred per¬ sons, including 150 children, are grouped into these two living pictures and so motionless are they that you might almost imagine them to be a group in colored marble. In the second division of the play Christ is condemned to death by the High Council, Peter denies his master, Judas distracted by remorse hangs himself in the Potter’s field, and Christ appears in the judgment hall before Pilate who, anxious to be relieved of the jurisdiction sends him to King Herod. There follows a scene that will live in the minds of the spectators long after other details of the play may be forgotten. Of a sudden the city of Jerusalem is in an uproar. Traders and priests run everywhere, crowds muster in front of the Sanhedrin, and finally one tumultuous mob comes pouring down the street to Pilate s house to demand the release of Barabbas and the crucifixion of Christ. Worked up to a frenzied pitch, the crowd with their persistent cries of, “Crucify Him! Crucify Him! ’’ override Pilate who, washing his hands of the matter yields to their demands. As a mass scene this is without parallel; as a climax to the second division of the play it can never be forgotten. The last division portrays the Way to the Cross, the Crucifixion and the Resurrection. Much might be said of the faithful rendering of the part of “Christus’’ by Alois Lang—a part that must call for a very close study of the life of the Master and for great physical endurance. Much, also, of Anni Rutz and Hansi Preisenger who take the parts of Mary and Mary Magdalene with such understanding. In the earlier part of the play, of Guido Mayr who with such dramatic zeal portrays Judas, and of Hanns Lang the youthful impersonator of John. Neither time nor space permits. In the last tableau Christ ascends to heaven. The last jubilant song of the angels, “ Hallelujah, ” fills the hall. The Passion Play is over. ( Continued on page 39) [ Page eleven ]

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Oberammergau By W. G. Malaher in a level valley on the northern fringe of the great mass of mountains which separate the flat lands of Germany from the plains of Italy, nestled under the shade of the surrounding hills, lies the homely, simple unspoiled village of Oberammergau. Like others who had been attracted to this picturesque Bavarian village I must confess that it was largely curiosity which drew me there one bright, warm day last August. Yet not altogether curiosity, for with it was a genuine desire to witness a per¬ formance which was being warmly discussed throughout the whole of Christendom, -a per¬ formance which, save for a few interruptions due to war, has been given regularly for the past three hundred years. For bringing me to Oberammergau I feel grateful to Casper Schisler. Poor Casper Schisler! He deserves well of posterity although he played a scurvy trick on his contemporaries for which the fates promptly exacted capital punishment. The story is a long one, yet you must know that Casper Schisler was a humble laborer of Oberammergau just about the time the Pilgrim Fathers settled in America. As one of the remote consequences of a thirty years’ war a great plague was ravaging Bavaria, scattering death in its wake. Ober¬ ammergau had been spared this visitation, yet not for long; for, urged by a natural desire to see his wife and children, this good man who was working in the plague striken village of Eschenlohe, evaded the quarantine and brought death upon himself and his fellow men. Helpless in their plight, the villagers assembled to discuss the situation and it was then that a vow was made, in token of their penitence, to hold a Passion Play in the village every ten years. From that moment, the chronicler tells us, the hand of death was stayed. It remained, later, for the parish priest. Daisem- berger, a born dramatist who saw the opportunity the performance offered, to strip the play of all that was farcial, and to produce a wonderfully faithful dramatic rendering of the Gospel Story. So much I learn from the trusty guide book as, in a wooden-seated compartment, we rattle and jerk along the fifteen miles that separate Murneau from Oberammergau. As we step out onto the platform, we feel, those of us who have not been here before, that we have set foot in another world, that we are living in another age. On every side of us, ready to carry our baggage to its destination, are men and youths whose long hair and beards strike us as curiously archaic. Custom decrees that none shall cut the hair or beard, and Nature has fashioned in these hardy Tyrolese mountaineers a type that is made all the more striking by their flowing locks. We seem to see in them already the Bible characters of old. As we pass through the main street all is astir in preparation for the morrow. The train has emptied its load of visitors who are finding their way to their billets for the night. Already the village has cast its spell upon us. We are tempted to linger and admire the clean white houses with their painted fronts and richly carved exteriors, to eye with envy these stalwart mountaineers as in their picturesque costume they stroll laughing down the street. Yet our good Bavarian friend has others to care for and we must hasten on. We are fortunate for we are to stay at the Pension Alois Lang who plays the part of Christus. A welcome awaits us here and it is not long before we are enjoying a meal the like of which, I venture to say, only the good housewife of Oberammergau knows how to prepare. A fine type of man, our host, hospitable, re¬ fined, proud of his home, his occupation, his village. And with good reason. Indeed, the student of social economics might do worse than observe how life goes on with the villagers of Oberammergau. They are more like the Swiss than Germans and have most of the characteristics of the mountaineers, who, whether they be called Swiss or Tyrolese, are one of the most respectworthy species of the human race. The traditional art of the village is woodcarving, and our host is a master carver. Apart from his profession his most beloved hobby, and one of which he loves to talk, is the keeping of bees. Isolation begets independence and this little community develops the most simple and sound system of democratic government. Nearly every man is a landowner, the poorest with about three acres and the richest about sixty. But over and above that they have the inestimable privilege of pasturage on the Alp. Talk about three acres and a cow! That ideal has been more than realized ever so long at Oberammergau. Never was there such a place for cows. The population is not more than 1600, but among them they own more than 600-700 cows. Thus they make a living; but the one event for which they live is the Passion Play. It is said that these people keep on talking for five years of the play that is past and for an¬ other five years of the play that is to come. Be this as it may, innumerable are the preparations necessary before the play is ready for present¬ ation. In order to keep the players in practice, a play is performed each year on a stage that is specially designed for that purpose. About two years before the performance all the citizens are called to the communal council where the mayor reminds them of their sacred vow. Now is the time when life in Oberammergau gets busier every day, the time when the whole village is in readiness for the big event which concerns so many: The Election of the Performers. Altogether 685 persons take part in the play and actually come on to the stage. Of these 125 speaking roles have to be elected. Naturally, it is the repu tation of the candidate that weighs heavily but no less im¬ portant is a good figure, a gocd audible voice, and a pronounced talent for impersonating. It is a point of honor to obtain one of the great roles and the prospect serves, during the course of many years, as a moral guide to the majority of young folk. Yet there is a wide choice of suit¬ able performers among that little group of artists for they have been accustomed to plays and recitations since childhocd, they have been brought up in the atmosphere of the play, and they have developed a [ Page ten ]

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Our Discovery of the West By Wi B. Turnbull I t was Archie’s suggestion that we go discovering. Discovering what? I asked dubiously. Everything’s been dis¬ covered long ago. Everything’s been discovered in a kind of way, Archie explained patiently, but it s not complete. Now take these birds Verendrye and Nicolet and La Salle. They travelled by water. I’ll bet there’s lots of towns out west they never even heard of. They left a lot undone. I ve read them all and they don’t even mention Chicago. I’m going to cover their trail and see what they’ve missed. Only I’m going by land.’’ The idea was intriguing and so was Archie. He was a tall, raw-boned policeman of Toronto whose vagrant instincts h ad not been entirely quelled by married life. As a matter of fact, he confided in me that his wife was ill-content with this police business and was eager that he go West where opportunities were abundant. It’s a wonderful chance,’’ Archie explained, and I’m going to take it. I 11 have to move fast because she doesn’t stay one way long, which, of course, I took it, applied to his wife. Archie had a car. Under pressure he admitted it was a few years old, but added grimly, A good hack all the same. You’d better come along. When he sensed my lingering temerity he advised me of his three years as a taxidriver, and of his four years as a mechanic. What’s more, he added, I always carry my tools. A trinity such as this: mechanic, taxidriver, policeman, was surely sufficient to guide any car to its haven. The logic was infallible; I agreed to come along. So we made our first step Westwards. That is, I moved up to Archie’s, so that we might get a proper start in the morning. For some unaccount¬ able reason he thought it absolutely necessary that we make an early morning getaway—say four or five o’clock. I gathered that continents were tricky things and that it required a deal of guile to sneak up on them. At Archie s, too, I discovered the Wife. It was then that I under¬ stood his theory that all wild life had not been uncovered by La Salle. Fortunately, her inclinations were favorable. The afternoon, under her inspiriting influence, we devoted to the loading of the car. This ancient contraption was open and possessed two seats, upholstered in that type of leather that turns an ordinary day to a blazing Sahara, a pleasant night to a frigid Alaska. Into the rear went a jumble of rugs, coats, suitcases, patent stoves, and the unwanted part of the household’s cooking utensils. 1 hese, by persistent effort, we eventually compressed into a mass that might be lain upon. The overflow brought out by the Wife was expeditiously returned by the Husband and secreted beneath the front verandah. Saturday morning we started. That is, we took what aviators would term a trial flight. It lasted thirty-two minutes and resulted in a broken pinion. This was no discredit to the car, Archie assured me. They all have ’em,’’ he said, and they all bust. But it postponed our de¬ parture until Sunday. At Sunday’s dinner we discovered Father. He too, had been a police¬ man, but, unlike his son, he had remained one. From him I learned of Archie’s secret yearning to be a book agent and to conquer the West. In his youth Father had bought somebody’s Unexcelled Encylopedia, and this wealth of r eady information had done little in the ensuing years but burn into his heart an unquenchable loathing for book agents. The situation ruined a really excellent Sunday dinner. By the time we had reached the dessert, Archie had become convinced that book agents were the world’s worst pests, that all parts of Canada but Toronto were a gaping void, and that anything so senile as a nation-wide trip would never be laid to the memory of the McGillicuddys. My hopes of emulating Verendrye were shattered; the wife’s vision of wealth was dissipated. I sat back in despair. The Wife merely sat back. There is a reassuring quality in the glint of a woman’s eye. With- out a word she told me all was well. It needs little speculation to reconstruct the conversation that follow¬ ed, that night, in the marital chamber. Sufficient to say, that on the morrow Archie’s faith in books had been completely restored. The uniform was returned to the inspector, apologies and resignations were again proferred, and an hour was fixed for departure. Promptly at four-thirty—Father was coming at five—we roared through the streets of Toronto. Archie’s years as a taxi driver had developed his penchant for notoriety, so, as I say, we roared away with the cut-out opened wide. That night we discovered Petrolia. This was Archie’s choice, not because of any virtue inherent in Petrolia. But Archie had an aunt there. Indeed, our stopping places across the continent were nearly always determined by this happy presence of an aunt. It was a part of this discovery business that Archie most enjoyed. It’s not so much to save money you know, he confided in me. but it’s nice to meet your relations. To which sentiment, after the first three aunts, I took violent exception. Of one thing I am certain; Scotland is d enuded of McGillicudys. The Petrolia aunt showed us albums of them, frcm their cute child¬ hood, pictured in frilled petticoats, to their grave maturity portrayed in black broadcloth and wing collars. My chief reflection was a profound admiration of the skill the McGillicudys possessed in the cultivation of long black moustaches. They were a family institution. For three hours we lamented failures and gloated over achievements. We traced hoards of Mac’s from birth, through marriage, to death; and then follow¬ ed through with their offspring. They are an interesting family, the McGillicudys, but eventually even Archie began to nod, and the aunt, really a kindly soul, escorted us upstairs by lamplight to our bed beneath the eaves. Petrolia is quite an oil town. Production figures mean nothing. But just try to sleep through your first night in that town. Ten thousand oil-pumping winches creak and groan like a myriad of doors in a breeze. They say Petrolia people can’t sleep anywhere else as they become, so accustomed to the eternal squeaks that a decent silence worries them. It’s the only reason I can give why anyone should remain in Petrolia. At Windsor, we met Uncle Sam. He was in uniform, and he chewed tobacco. Between expectorations, he asked our names, our religion, our age, how long we were to be in the States, when we were coming back, or if ever. Friend, said Archie, we re going to Moose Jaw, it’s in Canada, and it’s about twenty-four hundred miles from here.’ Moose Jaw! and how? queried the official. In that crate? you better pay poll tax now. You’ll be a long time in the States. He (i Continued on -page J+%) [ Page twelve ]