snows it stands out like a post, or a thick arrow stuck barb upwards.
The crucifix itself is a small thing under the pointed hood, the barb of
the arrow. The snow blows under the tiny shed, upon the little, exposed
Christ. All round is the solid whiteness of snow, the awful curves and
concaves of pure whiteness of the mountain top, the hollow whiteness
between the peaks, where the path crosses the high, extreme ridge of the
pass. And here stands the last crucifix, half buried, small and tufted
with snow. The guides tramp slowly, heavily past, not observing the
presence of the symbol, making no salute. Further down, every mountain
peasant lifted his hat. But the guide tramps by without concern. His is
a professional importance now.
On a small mountain track on the Jaufen, not far from Meran, was a
fallen Christus. I was hurrying downhill to escape from an icy wind
which almost took away my consciousness, and I was looking up at the
gleaming, unchanging snow-peaks all round. They seemed like blades
immortal in the sky. So I almost ran into a very old Martertafel. It
leaned on the cold, stony hillside surrounded by the white peaks in the
upper air.
The wooden hood was silver-grey with age, and covered, on the top, with
a thicket of lichen, which stuck up in hoary tufts. But on the rock at
the foot of the post was the fallen Christ, armless, who had tumbled
down and lay in an unnatural posture, the naked, ancient wooden
sculpture of the body on the naked, living rock. It was one of the old
uncouth Christs hewn out of bare wood, having the long, wedge-shaped
limbs and thin flat legs that are significant of the true spirit, the
desire to convey a religious truth, not a sensational experience.
The arms of the fallen Christ had broken off at the shoulders, and they
hung on their nails, as ex-voto limbs hang in the shrines. But these
arms dangled from the palms, one at each end of the cross, the muscles,
carved sparely in the old wood, looking all wrong, upside down. And the
icy wind blew them backwards and forwards, so that they gave a painful
impression, there in the stark, sterile place of rock and cold. Yet I
dared not touch the fallen body of the Christ, that lay on its back in
so grotesque a posture at the foot of the post. I wondered who would
come and take the broken thing away, and for what purpose.
_On the Lago di Garda_
_1_
THE SPINNER AND THE MONKS
The Holy Spirit is a Dove, or an Eagle. In the Old Testament it was an
Eagle; in the New Testament it is a Dove.
And there are, standing over the Christian world, the Churches of the
Dove and the Churches of the Eagle. There are, moreover, the Churches
which do not belong to the Holy Spirit at all, but which are built to
pure fancy and logic; such as the Wren Churches in London.
The Churches of the Dove are shy and hidden: they nestle among trees,
and their bells sound in the mellowness of Sunday; or they are gathered
into a silence of their own in the very midst of the town, so that one
passes them by without observing them; they are as if invisible,
offering no resistance to the storming of the traffic.
But the Churches of the Eagle stand high, with their heads to the skies,
as if they challenged the world below. They are the Churches of the
Spirit of David, and their bells ring passionately, imperiously, falling
on the subservient world below.
The Church of San Francesco was a Church of the Dove. I passed it
several times in the dark, silent little square, without knowing it was
a church. Its pink walls were blind, windowless, unnoticeable, it gave
no sign, unless one caught sight of the tan curtain hanging in the door,
and the slit of darkness beneath. Yet it was the chief church of
the village.
But the Church of San Tommaso perched over the village. Coming down the
cobbled, submerged street, many a time I looked up between the houses
and saw the thin old church standing above in the light, as if it
perched on the house-roofs. Its thin grey neck was held up stiffly,
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