drowning in full stream, his arms in the air. The little painting in its
wooden frame is nailed to the tree, the spot is sacred to the accident.
Again, another little crude picture fastened to a rock: a tree, falling
on a man's leg, smashes it like a stalk, while the blood flies up.
Always there is the strange ejaculation of anguish and fear, perpetuated
in the little paintings nailed up in the place of the disaster.

This is the worship, then, the worship of death and the approaches to
death, physical violence, and pain. There is something crude and
sinister about it, almost like depravity, a form of reverting, turning
back along the course of blood by which we have come.

Turning the ridge on the great road to the south, the imperial road to
Rome, a decisive change takes place. The Christs have been taking on
various different characters, all of them more or less realistically
conveyed. One Christus is very elegant, combed and brushed and foppish
on his cross, as Gabriele D'Annunzio's son posing as a martyred saint.
The martyrdom of this Christ is according to the most polite convention.
The elegance is very important, and very Austrian. One might almost
imagine the young man had taken up this striking and original position
to create a delightful sensation among the ladies. It is quite in the
Viennese spirit. There is something brave and keen in it, too. The
individual pride of body triumphs over every difficulty in the
situation. The pride and satisfaction in the clean, elegant form, the
perfectly trimmed hair, the exquisite bearing, are more important than
the fact of death or pain. This may be foolish, it is at the same time
admirable.

But the tendency of the crucifix, as it nears the ridge to the south, is
to become weak and sentimental. The carved Christs turn up their faces