give the answer to the soul's anxiety. That which is, is. It does not
cease to be when it is cut. Death cannot create nor destroy. What
is, is.

The little brooding Christ knows this. What is he brooding, then? His
static patience and endurance is wistful. What is it that he secretly
yearns for, amid all the placidity of fate? 'To be, or not to be,' this
may be the question, but is it not a question for death to answer. It is
not a question of living or not-living. It is a question of being--to be
or not to be. To persist or not to persist, that is not the question;
neither is it to endure or not to endure. The issue, is it eternal
not-being? If not, what, then, is being? For overhead the eternal
radiance of the snow gleams unfailing, it receives the efflorescence of
all life and is unchanged, the issue is bright and immortal, the snowy
not-being. What, then, is being?

As one draws nearer to the turning-point of the Alps, towards the
culmination and the southern slope, the influence of the educated world
is felt once more. Bavaria is remote in spirit, as yet unattached. Its
crucifixes are old and grey and abstract, small like the kernel of the
truth. Further into Austria they become new, they are painted white,
they are larger, more obtrusive. They are the expressions of a later,
newer phase, more introspective and self-conscious. But still they are
genuine expressions of the people's soul.

Often one can distinguish the work of a particular artist here and there
in a district. In the Zemm valley, in the heart of the Tyrol, behind
Innsbruck, there are five or six crucifixes by one sculptor. He is no
longer a peasant working out an idea, conveying a dogma. He is an
artist, trained and conscious, probably working in Vienna. He is