consciously trying to convey a _feeling_, he is no longer striving
awkwardly to render a truth, a religious fact.

The chief of his crucifixes stands deep in the Klamm, in the dank gorge
where it is always half-night. The road runs under the rock and the
trees, half-way up the one side of the pass. Below, the stream rushes
ceaselessly, embroiled among great stones, making an endless loud noise.
The rock face opposite rises high overhead, with the sky far up. So that
one is walking in a half-night, an underworld. And just below the path,
where the pack-horses go climbing to the remote, infolded villages, in
the cold gloom of the pass hangs the large, pale Christ. He is larger
than life-size. He has fallen forward, just dead, and the weight of the
full-grown, mature body hangs on the nails of the hands. So the dead,
heavy body drops forward, sags, as if it would tear away and fall under
its own weight.

It is the end. The face is barren with a dead expression of weariness,
and brutalized with pain and bitterness. The rather ugly, passionate
mouth is set for ever in the disillusionment of death. Death is the
complete disillusionment, set like a seal over the whole body and being,
over the suffering and weariness and the bodily passion.

The pass is gloomy and damp, the water roars unceasingly, till it is
almost like a constant pain. The driver of the pack-horses, as he comes
up the narrow path in the side of the gorge, cringes his sturdy
cheerfulness as if to obliterate himself, drawing near to the large,
pale Christ, and he takes his hat off as he passes, though he does not
look up, but keeps his face averted from the crucifix. He hurries by in
the gloom, climbing the steep path after his horses, and the large white
Christ hangs extended above.