The imperial procession no longer crosses the mountains, going South.
That is almost forgotten, the road has almost passed out of mind. But
still it is there, and its signs are standing.
The crucifixes are there, not mere attributes of the road, yet still
having something to do with it. The imperial processions, blessed by the
Pope and accompanied by the great bishops, must have planted the holy
idol like a new plant among the mountains, there where it multiplied and
grew according to the soil, and the race that received it.
As one goes among the Bavarian uplands and foothills, soon one realizes
here is another land, a strange religion. It is a strange country,
remote, out of contact. Perhaps it belongs to the forgotten, imperial
processions.
Coming along the clear, open roads that lead to the mountains, one
scarcely notices the crucifixes and the shrines. Perhaps one's interest
is dead. The crucifix itself is nothing, a factory-made piece of
sentimentalism. The soul ignores it.
But gradually, one after another looming shadowily under their hoods,
the crucifixes seem to create a new atmosphere over the whole of the
countryside, a darkness, a weight in the air that is so unnaturally
bright and rare with the reflection from the snows above, a darkness
hovering just over the earth.
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