The storm had spent its fury, the winds sung themselves softly to sleep, a friendly face looked down between the dispersing clouds and cast its mild light upon the water, now gradually flowing away. The swollen brooks rolled like molten silver--cold, glittering veins of the giant mountain body, whose crown of snow bestowed by the tempest glimmered with argent lustre in the pallid moonbeams. A breeze, chill and strengthening as the icy breath of eternity, sweeping from the white glaciers, entered the little window against which the countess was dreamily leaning.
Higher and higher rose the moon, more and more transfigured and transparent became the mountains, as if they were no longer compact masses, only the spiritual image of themselves as it may have hovered before the divine creative mind, ere He gave them material form.
The village lay silent before her, and silence pervaded all nature. Yet to the countess it seemed as if it were the stillness which precedes a great, decisive word.
"What hast Thou to say to me, Viewless One? Sacred stillness, what dost thou promise? Will the moment come when I shall understand Thy language, infinite Spirit? Or wilt Thou only half do Thy work in me--only awake the feeling that Thou art near me, speaking to me, merely to let me die of longing for the word I have failed to comprehend.
"Woe betide me, if it is so! And yet--wherefore hast Thou implanted in my heart this longing, this inexplicable yearning, whichnothingstills, no earthly advantage, neither the splendor and grandeur Thou hast given me, nor the art and science which Thou didst endow me with capacity to appreciate. On, on, strives my thirsting soul toward the germ of all existence, towardThee. Fain would I behold Thy face, though the fiery vision should consume me!
"Source of wisdom, no knowledge gives Thee to me; source of love, no love can supply Thy place. I have sought Thee in the temples of beauty, but found Thee not; in the shining spheres of thought, but in vain; in the love of human beings, but no matter how many hearts opened to me, I flung them aside as worthless rubbish, for Thou wert not in them! When will the moment come that Thou wilt appear before me in some noble form suited to Thy Majesty, and tell the sinner that her dim longing, into whatever errors it may have led her, yet obtained for her the boon of beholding Thy face?"
Burning tears glittered in the moonlight in the countess' large, beseeching eyes and, mastered by an inexplicable feeling, she sank on her knees at the little window, stretching her clasped hands fervently towards the shining orb, floating in her mild beauty and effulgence above the conquered, flying clouds. The mountain opposite towered like a spectral form in the moonlit atmosphere, the peak over which she had driven that day, where she had seen that wondrous apparition, that man with the grief of the universe in his gaze! What manner of man must he have been whose glance, in a single moment, awed the person upon whom it fell as if some higher power had given a look of admiration? Why had it rested upon her with such strange reproach, as if saying: "You, too, are a child of the world, like many who come here, unworthy of salvation." Or was he angry with her because she had disturbed him in his reveries? Yet why did he fix his eyes so intently upon hers, that neither could avert them from the other? And all this happened in a single moment--but a moment worthy of being held in remembrance throughout an eternity. Who could he be? Would she see him again? Yes, for in that meeting there was something far beyond mere accident.
An incomprehensible restlessness seized upon her, a longing to solve the enigma, once more behold that face, that wonderful face whose like she had never seen before!
The horse was stamping in its stall, but she did not heed it, the thin candles had burned down and gone out long ago, the worm was gnawing the ancient wainscoting, the clock in the church-steeple struck twelve. A dog howled in the distance, one of the children in the workshop was disturbed by the nightmare, it cried out in its sleep. Usually such nocturnal sounds would have greatly irritated the countess' nerves. Now she had no ears for them, before her lay the whole grand expanse of mountain scenery, bathed in the moonlight, naked as a beautiful body just risen from a glittering flood! And she was seized with an eager longing to throw herself upon the bosom of this noble body, that she, too, might be irradiated with light, steeped in its moist glow and cool in the pure, icy atmosphere emanating from it, her fevered blood, the vague yearning which thrilled her pulses. She hurriedly seized her hat and cloak and stepped noiselessly into the workshop. What a picture of poverty! The sisters and the little girl were lying on the floor upon sacks of straw, the boy was asleep on the "couch," and the old man dozed sitting erect in an antique arm-chair, with his feet on a stool.
"How relative everything is," thought the countess. "To these people even so poor a bed as mine in yonder room is a forbidden luxury, which it would be sinful extravagance to desire. And we, amid our rustling curtains, on our silken cushions, resting on soft down, in rooms illuminated with the magical glow of lamps which pour a flood of roseate light on limbs stretched in comfortable repose, while the bronze angels which support the mirror seem to laugh gaily at each other, and from the toilet table intoxicating perfumes send forth their sweet poison, to conjure up a tropical world of blossom before the drowsy senses! While these sleeping-places here! On the bare floor and straw, lighted by the cold glimmer of the moon, shining through uncurtained windows and making the slumberers' lids quiver restlessly. Not even undressed, cramped by their coarse, tight garments, their weary limbs move uneasily on the hard beds! And this atmosphere! Five human beings in the low room and the soot from the lamp which has been smoking all the evening still filling the air. What lives! What contrasts! Yet these people are content and do not complain of their hard fate! Nay, they even disdain a favorable opportunity of improving it by legitimate gains. Not one desires more than is customary and usual. What pride, what grandeur of self-sacrifice this requires!What gives them this power?"
Old Andreas woke and gazed with an almost terrified expression at the beautiful figure of the countess, standing thoughtfully among the sleepers. Starting up, he asked what she desired.
"Will you go to walk with me, Herr Gross?"
The old man rubbed his eyes to convince himself that he had slept so long that the sun was shining into his room. But no. "It is the moon which is so bright," he said to the countess.
"Why, of course, that is why I want to go out!" she repeated. The old man quickly seized his hat from the chamois horn and stood ready to attend her. "Are you not tired?" she said hesitatingly. "You have not been in bed."
"Oh, that is of no consequence!" was his ready answer. "During the Passion it is always so."
The countess shook her head; she knew that the people here said simply "the Passion," but she could not understand why, during "the Passion," they should neither expect a bed nor the most trivial comfort or why, for the sake of "the Passion," they should endure without a murmur, and without succumbing, every exertion and deprivation. She saw in the broad light which filled the room the old man's bright, keen eyes. "No, these Ammergau people know no fatigue, their task supports them!"
The countess left the room with him. "Ah!" an involuntary exclamation of delight escaped her lips as she emerged into the splendor of the brilliant moonlight, and eagerly inhaled the air which blew cold and strong, yet closed softly around her, strengthening and supporting her like the waves of the sea. And, amid these shimmering, floating mists, this "phosphorescence" of the earth, these waves of melting outlines, softly dissolving shapes--the Kofel towered solitary in sharp relief, like a vast reef of rocks, and on its summit glittered the metal-bound cross, the symbol of Ammergau, sending its beams far and wide in the light of the full moon like the lantern of a lighthouse.
Madeleine von Wildenau stretched out her arms, throwing back her cloak, that her whole form might bathe in the pure element.
"Oh, wash away all earthly dust and earthly ballast, ye surging billows: steal, purify me in thy chaste majesty, queen of the world, heaven-born air of the heights!" Was it possible that hitherto she had been able to live without this bliss,hadshe lived? No, no, she had not! "Ammergau, thou art the soil I have sought! Thy miracles are beginning!" cried an exultant voice in the soul of the woman so suddenly released from the toils of weary desolation.
Without exchanging many words--for the old man was full of delicacy, and perceived what was passing in the countess' soul--they involuntarily walked in the direction of the Kofel; only when they were passing the house of a prominent actor in the Passion Play, he often thought it his duty to call his companion's attention to it.
Their way now lead them past a small dilapidated tavern which had but two windows in the front. Here the Roman Procurator lay on his bed of straw, enjoying his well-earned night's rest. It was the house of Pilate! Nowhere was any window closed with shutters--there were no thieves in Ammergau! The moon was reflected from every window-pane. They turned into the main street of the village, where the Ammer flowed in its broad, deep channel like a Venetian lagoon. The stately, picturesquely situated houses threw sharp shadows on the water. Here the ancient, venerable "star," whose landlord was one of the musicians, thrust its capacious bow-window into the street; yonder a foot-bridge led to the house of Caiaphas, a handsome building, richly adorned with frescoes representing scenes from ancient history; farther on Judas was sleeping the sleep of the just, rejoicing in the consciousness of having betrayed his master so often! On the other side Mary rested under the richly carved gable with the ancient design of the clover leaf, the symbol of the Trinity, and directly opposite, the milk-wart nodded and swayed on the wall of the churchyard!
A strange feeling stole over the countess as she stood among these consecrated sleepers. As the fragrance of the sleeping flowers floats over a garden at night, the sorrowful spirit of the story of the Passion seemed to rise from these humble resting places, and the pilgrim through the silent village was stirred as though she was walking through the streets of Jerusalem. A street turned to the left between gardens surrounded by fences and shaded by tall, ancient trees. The shadows of the branches, tossed by the wind, flickered and danced with magical grace. "That is the way to the dwelling of the Christ," said old Gross, in a subdued, reverential tone.
The countess involuntarily started. "The Christ," she repeated thoughtfully, pausing. "Can the house be seen?"
"No, not from here. The house is like himself, not very easy to find."
"Is he so inaccessible?" asked the countess, glancing down the mysterious street again as they passed.
"Oh yes," replied Andreas. "He is a peculiar man. It is difficult to approach him. He is a friend of my son, but has little to do with the rest of us."
"But you associate with him?"
"Very little in daily life; he goes nowhere, not even to the ale-house. But in the Passion I am associated with him. I always nail him to the cross," added the old man proudly. "No one is permitted to do that except myself."
The countess listened with eager interest. The brief description had roused her curiosity to the utmost. "How do you do it?" she asked, to keep him to the same subject.
"I cannot explain that to you, but a great deal depends upon having everything exactly right, for, you know, the least mistake might cost him his life."
"How?"
"Why, surely you can understand. Just think, the man is obliged to hang on the cross for twenty minutes. During this time the blood cannot circulate, and he always risks an attack of palpitation of the heart. One incautious movement in the descent from the cross, which should cause the blood to flow back too quickly to the heart, might cause his death."
"That is terrible!" cried the countess in horror. "And does he know it?"
"Why, certainly."
"Andstilldoes it!"
Here Andreas gazed at the great lady with a compassionate smile, as if he wanted to say: "How little you understand, that you can ask such a question!"
They walked on silently. The countess was thinking: "What kind of man must this Christ be?" and while thus pondering and striving to form some idea of him, it suddenly flashed upon her that there was butoneface which could belong to this man, the face she had seen gazing down upon her from the mountain, as if from some other world. Like a blaze of lightning the thought flamed through her soul. "Thatmust have been he!"
At that moment Gross made a circuit around a gloomy house that had a neglected, tangled garden.
"Who lives there?" asked the countess in surprise, following the old man, who was now walking much faster.
"Oh," he answered sorrowfully, "that is a sad place! There is an unhappy girl there, who sobs and moans all night long so that people hear her outside. I wanted to spare you, Countess."
They had now reached the end of the village and were walking, still along the bank of the Ammer, toward a large dam over which the mountain stream, swollen by the rain, plunged in mad, foaming waves. The spray gleamed dazzlingly white in the moon-rays, the massive beams trembled under the pressure of the unchained volume of water, groaning and creaking with a sinister noise amid the thundering roar until it sounded like the wails of the dying amid the din of battle. The countess shuddered at the demoniac power of this spectacle. High above the steep fall a narrow plank led from one bank of the stream to the other, vibrating constantly with the shock of the falling water. Madeleine's brain whirled at the thought of being compelled to cross it. "The timbers are groaning," she said, pausing. "Does not it sound like a human voice?"
The old man listened. "By heaven! one would suppose so."
"Itisa human voice--there--hark--some one is weeping--moaning."
The dam was in the full radiance of the moonlight, the countess and her companion stood concealed by a dense clump of willows, so that they could see without being seen.
Suddenly--what was that? The old man made the sign of the cross. "Heavenly Father, it is she!"
A female figure was gliding across the plank. Like the ruddy glow of flame, mingled with the bluish hue of the moonlight, a mass of red-gold hair gleamed around her head and fluttered in the wind. The beautiful face was ghost-like in its pallor, the eyes were fixed, the very embodiment of despair. Her upper garment hung in tatters about her softly-moulded shoulders, and she held her clasped hands uplifted, not like one who prays, but one who fain would pray, yet cannot. Then with the firm poise of a person seeking death, she walked to the middle of the swaying plank, where the water was deepest, the fall most steep. There she prepared to take the fatal plunge. The countess shrieked aloud and Gross shouted:
"Josepha! Josepha! May God forgive you. Remember your old mother!"
The girl uttered a piercing cry, covered her face with both hands, and flung herself prone on the narrow plank.
But, with the speed of a youth, the old man was already on the bridge, raising the girl. "Shame on you to wish to do such a thing! We must submit to our fate! Now take care that you don't make a mis-step or I, an old man, must leap into the cold water to drag you out again, and you know how much I suffer from the rheumatism." He spoke in low, kindly tones, and the countess secretly admired his shrewdness and tenderness. She watched them breathlessly as the girl, at these words, tried not to slip in order to spare him. But now, as she did notwishto fall, she moved with uncertain, stumbling feet, where she had just seemed to fly. But Andreas Gross led her firmly and kindly. The countess' heart throbbed heavily till they reached the end and, in the utmost anxiety she stretched out her arms to them from the distance. Thank Heaven, there they are! The lady caught the girl by the hand and dragged her on the shore, where she sank silently, like a stricken animal, at her feet. The countess covered the trembling form with her cloak and said a few comforting words.
"Do you know her?" she asked the old man.
"Of course, it is Josepha Freyer, from the gloomy house yonder."
"Freyer? A relative of the Freyer who played the Christ."
"A cousin; yes."
The old man was about to go to the girl's house to bring her mother.
"No, no," said the countess. "I will care for her. What induced the unfortunate girl to take such a step?"
"She was the Mary Magdalene in the last Passion!" whispered the old man. At the words the girl raised her head and burst into violent sobs.
"My child, what has happened!" asked the countess, gazing admiringly at the charming creature, who was as perfect a picture of the penitent Magdalene as any artist could create.
"Why don't you play the Magdalenethis time?"
"Don't you know?" asked the girl, amazed that there was any human being still ignorant of her disgrace. "I am notpermittedto play now--I am--I have"--she again burst with convulsive sobs and, clasping the countess' knees, cried: "Oh, let me die, I cannot bear it."
"She fell into error," said Gross, in reply to the lady's questioning glance. "A little boy was born last winter. Now she can no longer act, for only those who are pure and without reproach are permitted to take part in the Passion."
"Oh, how harsh!" cried the countess; "And in a land where human beings are so near to nature, and in circumstances where the poor girls are so little guarded."
"Yes, we are aware of that--and Josepha is a heavy loss to us in the play--but these rules have come down to us from our ancestors and must be rigidly maintained. Yet the girl takes it too much to heart, she weeps day and night, so that people never pass the house to avoid hearing her lamentations, and now she wants to kill herself, the foolish lass."
"Oh, it's very well for you to talk, it's very well for you to talk," now burst from the girls lips in accents tremulous with passion. "First, try once what it is to have the whole world point at you. When the Englishmen, and the strangers from all the foreign countries in the world, come and want to see the famous Josepha Freyer, who played in the last Passion, and fairly drag the soul out of your body with their questions about the reason that you no longer act in it. Wait till you have to tell each person the story of your own disgrace, that it may be carried through the whole earth and know that your name is branded wherever men speak of the Passion Play. First try what it is to hide in a corner like a criminal, while they are acting in the Passion, and bragging and giving themselves airs as if they were saints, while thousands upon thousands listen devoutly. Ah, I alone am shut out, and yet I know thatno onecan act as I do." She drew herself up proudly, and flung the magnificent traditional locks of the Magdalene back on her shoulders. "Just seek such a Magdalene as I was--you will find none. And then to be forced to hear people who are passing ask: 'Why doesn't Josepha Freyer play the Magdalene this year?' And then there are whispers, shrugs, and laughter, some one says, 'then she would suit the character exactly.' And when people pass the house they point at it--it seems as if I could feel it through the walls--and mutter: 'That's where the Penitent lives!' No, I won't bear it. I only waited till there was a heavy storm to make the water deep enough for me to drown myself. And I've been prevented even in this."
"Josepha!" said the countess, deeply moved, "will you go with me--away from Ammergau, to another, a very different world, where you and your disgrace are unknown?"
Josepha gazed at the stranger as if in a dream.
"I believe," the lady added, "that my losing my maid to-day was an act of Providence in your behalf. Will you take her place?"
"Thank heaven!" said old Gross. "Brighter days will dawn for you, Josepha!"
Josepha stood still with her hands clasped, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
"Why, do you hesitate to accept my offer?" asked the countess, greatly perplexed.
"Oh, don't be angry with me--I am sincerely grateful; but what do I care for all these things, if I am no longer permitted to act the Magdalene?" burst in unutterable anguish from the very depths of the girl's soul.
"What an ambition!" said the countess to Andreas in astonishment.
"Yes, that is the way with them all here--they would rather lose their lives than a part in the Passion!" he answered in a low tone. "But, child, you could not always play the Magdalene--in ten years you would be too old for it," he said soothingly to the despairing Josepha.
"Oh that's a very different thing--when we have grown grey with honors, we know that we must give it up--but so--" and again she gazed longingly at the beautiful, deep, rushing water, where it would be so cool, so pleasant to rest--which she had vowed to seek, and now could not keep her word.
"Do you love your child, Josepha?" asked Countess Wildenau.
"It died directly after it was born."
"Do you love your mother?"
"No, she was always unkind and harsh to me, and now she has lost her mind."
"Do you love your lover?" the lady persisted.
"Yes--but he is dead! A poacher shot him--he was a forester."
"Then you have no one for whom you care to live?"
"No one!"
"Then come with me and try whether you cannot love me well enough to make it worth while to live for me! Will you?"
"Yes, your Highness, I will try!" replied the girl, fixing her large eyes with an expression of mingled inquiry and admiration upon the countess. A beautiful glow of gratitude and confidence gradually transfigured the grief-worn face: "I think I could do anything for you."
"Come with me then--at once, poor child--I will save you! Your relatives will not object."
"Oh, no! They will be glad to have me go away."
"And your cousin, the--the--" she does not know herself why she hesitates to pronounce the name.
"The Christ-Freyer?" said Josepha finishing the sentence. "Oh! he has not spoken to me for a year, except to say what was absolutely necessary, he cannot get over my having brought disgrace upon his unsullied name. It has made him disgusted with life here and, if it were not for the Christ, he would not stay in Ammergau. He is so severe in such things."
"Sosevere!" the countess repeated, thoughtfully.
The clock in the steeple of the Ammergau church struck two.
"It is late," said the countess, "the poor thing needs rest." She wrapped her own cloak around the girl.
"Come, lonely heart, I will warm you."
She turned once more to drink in the loveliness of the exquisite scene.
"Night of miracle, I thank thee."
"What do you think. The Countess von Wildenau is founding an Orphan's Home!" said the prince, as, leaving the Gross house, he joined a group of gentlemen who were waiting just outside the door in the little garden.
The news created a sensation; the gentlemen, laughing and jesting, plied him with questions.
"Oh,Mon Dieu, who can understand a woman? Our goddess is sitting in the peasants' living room, with the elderly daughters of the house, indescribable creatures, occupying herself with feminine work."
"Her Highness! Countess Wildenau! Oh, that's a bad joke."
"No, upon my honor! If she had not hung a veil over the window, we could see her sitting there. She has borrowed a calico apron from one of the 'ladies of the house,' and as, for want of a maid, she was obliged to arrange her hair herself, she wears it to-day in a remarkably simple style and looks,"--he kissed his hand to the empty air--"more bewitching than ever, like a girl of sixteen, a regular Gretchen! Whoever has not gone crazy over her when she has been in full dress, will surely do so if he sees herthus."
"Aha! We must see her, too; we'll assail the window!" cried his companions enthusiastically.
"No, no! For Heaven's sake don't do that, on pain of her anger! Prince Hohenheim, I beg you! Count Cossigny, don't knock! St. Génois,au nom de Dieu, she will never forgive you."
"Why not--friends so intimate as we are?"
"I have already said, who can depend upon a woman's whims? Let me explain. I entered, rejoicing in the thought of bringing her such pleasant news. I said: 'Guess whom I met just now at the ticket office, Countess?' The goddess sat sewing."
There was a general cry of astonishment. "Sewing!" the prince went on, "of course, without a thimble, for those in the house did not fit, and there was none among Her Highness' trinkets. So I repeated my question. An icy 'How can I tell?' was the depressing answer, as if at that moment nothing in the world could possibly interest her more than her work! So, unasked and with no display of attention, I was forced to go on with my news. 'Just think, Countess, Prince Hohenheim, the Counts Cossigny, Wengenrode, St. Génois, all Austria, France, and Bavaria have arrived!' I joyously exclaimed. I expected that she would utter a sigh of relief at the thought of meeting men of her world again, but no--she greeted my tidings with a frown."
"Hear, hear!" cried the group.
"A frown! I was forced to persist. 'They are outside, waiting to throw themselves at your feet,' I added. A still darker frown. 'Please keep the gentlemen away, I can see no one, I will see no one.' So she positively announced. I timidly ventured to ask why. She was tired, she could receive no one, she had no time. At last it came out. What do you suppose the countess did yesterday?"
"I dare not guess," replied St. Génois with a malicious glance at the prince, which the latter loftily ignored.
"She sent me away at eleven o'clock and then went wandering about, rhapsodizing over the moonlight with her host, old Gross."
A universal peal of laughter greeted these words. "Countess Wildenau, for lack of an escort, obliged to wander about with an old stone-cutter!"
"Yes, and she availed herself of this virtuous ramble to save the life of a despairing girl, who very opportunely attempted to commit suicide, just at the time the countess was passing to rescue this precious prize. Now she is sitting yonder remodeling one of her charming tailor costumes for this last toy of her caprice. She declares that she loves the wench most tenderly, will never be separated from her; in short, she is playing the novel character of Lady Bountiful, and does not want to be disturbed."
"Did you see the fair orphan?"
"No; she protested that it would be unpleasant for the girl to expose herself to curious glances, so she conceals this very sensitive young lady from profane eyes in her sleeping room. What do you say to all this, Prince?"
"I say," replied Prince Hohenheim, an elderly gentleman with a clearly cut, sarcastic face, a bald forehead, and a low, but distinct enunciation, "that a vivacious, imaginative woman is always influenced by the environment in which she happens to find herself. When the countess is in the society of scholarly people, she becomes extremely learned, if she is in a somewhat frivolous circle, like ours, she grows--not exactly frivolous, but full of sparkling wit, and here, among these devout enthusiasts, Her Highness wishes to play the part of a Stylite. Let us indulge her, it won't last long, a lady's whim must never be thwarted.Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut!"
"Has the countess also made a vow to fast?" asked Count Cossigny of the Austrian Embassy, and therefore briefly called 'Austria,' "could we not dine together?"
"No, she told me that she would not leave the beloved suicide alone a moment at present, and therefore she intended to dine at home. Yesterday she shuddered at the bare thought of drinking a cup of tea made in that witch's kitchen, and only the fact that my valet prepared it and I drank it first in her presence finally induced her, at ten o'clock last evening, to accept the refreshment. And to-day she will eat a dinner prepared by the ladies of the house. There must really be something dangerous in the air of Ammergau!"
"To persons of the countess' temperament, yes!" replied Prince Hohenheim in his calm manner, then slipping his arm through the prince's a moment, whispered confidentially, as they walked on: "I advise you, Prince Emil, to get her away as soon as possible."
"Certainly, all the arrangements are made. We shall start directly after the performance."
"That is fortunate. To-morrow, then! You have tickets?"
"Oh yes, and what is still better, whole bones."
"That's true," cried Austria, "what a crowd! One might think Sarah Bernhardt was going to play the Virgin Mary."
"It's ridiculous! I haven't seen such a spectacle since the Paris Exposition!" remarked St. Génois.
"It's worse than Baden-Baden at the time of the races," muttered Wengenrode, angrily. "Absurd, what brings the people here?"
"Why,weare here, too," said Hohenheim, smiling.
"Mon Dieu, it must be seen once, if people are in the neighborhood," observed Cossigny.
"Are you going directly after the performance, too?" asked Prince Emil.
"Of course, what is there to do here? No gaming--no ladies' society, and just think, the burgomaster of Ammergau will allow neither a circus nor any other ordinary performance. He was offeredforty thousand marksby the proprietor of the Circus Rouannet, if he would permit him to give performances during the Passion Play! Mademoiselle Rouannet told me so herself. Do you suppose that obstinate, stiff-necked Philistine could be persuaded? No, it was not in harmony with the dignity of the Passion Play. He preferred to refuse the 40,000 marks. The Salon Klüber wanted to put up an elegant merry-go-round and offered 12,000 marks for the privilege. Heaven forbid!"
"I believe these people have the mania of ambition," said Wengenrode.
"Say rather ofsaintship,' corrected Prince Hohenheim.
"Aye, they all consider themselves the holy personages whom they represent. We need only look at this arrogant burgomaster, and the gentleman who personates Christ, to understand what these people imagine themselves."
All joined in the laugh which followed.
"Yes," said Wengenrode, "and the Roman procurator, Pilate, who is a porter or a messenger and so drags various loads about, carried up my luggage to-day and dropped my dressing case containing a number of breakable jars and boxes. 'Stupid blockhead!' I exclaimed, angrily. He straightened himself and looked at me with an expression which actually embarrassed me. 'My name isThomas Rendner, sir! I beg your pardon for my awkwardness, and am ready to make your loss good, so far as my means shall allow.'"
"Now tell me, isn't that sheer hallucination of grandeur?"
Some of the gentlemen laughed, but Prince Emil and Hohenheim were silent.
"Where shall we go to-morrow evening in Munich to recompense ourselves for this boredom?" asked Cossigny.
"To the Casino, I think!" said the prince.
"Well, then we'll all meet there, shall we?"
The party assented.
"Provided that the countess has no commands for us," observed St. Génois.
"She will not have any," said the prince, "for either the Play will produce an absurd impression which is not to be expected, and then she will feel ashamed and unwilling to grant us our triumph because we predicted it, or her sentimental mood will draw from this farce a sweet poison of emotion, and in that case we shall be too frivolous for her! This must first be allowed to exhale."
"Very true," Hohenheim assented. "You are just the man to cope with this capricious beauty, Prince Emil. Adieu! May you prosper!"
The gentlemen raised their hats.
"Farewell!" said Cossigny, "by the way, I'll make a suggestion. We shall best impress the countess while in this mood, by our generosity; let us heap coals of fire on her head by sending a telegram to the court-gardener to convert the whole palace into a floral temple to welcome her return. It will touch a mysterious chord of sympathy if she meets only these mute messengers of our adoration. When on entering she finds this surprise and remembers how basely she treated us this morning, her heart will be touched and she will invite us to dine the day after to-morrow."
"A capital plan," cried Wengenrode and St. Génois, gaily. "Do your Highnesses agree?"
"Certainly," replied Hohenheim, with formal courtesy, "when the point in question is a matter of gallantry, a Hohenheim is never backward."
"I beg to be allowed to contribute also, butincognito. She would regard such an attention from me as a piece of sentimentality, and it would produce just the contrary effect," Prince Emil answered.
"As you please."
"Let us go to the telegraph office!" cried Wengenrode, eagerly.
"Farewell, gentlemen."
"Au revoir, Prince Emil! Are you going to return to the lionesses' den?"
"Can you ask?" questioned Hohenheim with a significant smile.
"Then early to-morrow morning at the Play, and at night the Casino, don't forget!" Cossigny called back.
The gentlemen, laughing and chatting, strolled down the street to their lodgings. The prince watched them a moment, turned, and went back to the countess.
"I cannot really be vexed with her, if these associates do not satisfy her," he thought.
"Should I desire her to become my wife, if they did? Certainly not. Yet if women only would not rush from one extreme to another? Hohenheim is perfectly right, she ought not to stay here too long, she must go to-morrow."
He had reached the house and entered the neglected old garden where huge gnarled fruit trees, bearing small, stunted fruit, interlaced their branches above a crooked bench. There, in the midst of the rank grass and weeds, sat the countess, her beautiful head resting against the mouldy bark of the old trunk, gazing thoughtfully at the luminous mountains gleaming in the distance through the tangled boughs and shrubbery.
From the adjoining garden of the sculptor Zwink, whose site was somewhat higher, a Diana carved in white stone gazed curiously across, seeming as if she wished to say to the pensive lady who at that moment herself resembled a statue: "Art will create gods for youeverywhere!" But the temptation had no effect, the countess seemed to have had no luck with these gods, she no longer believed in them!
"Well, Countess Madeleine, did the light and air lure you out of doors?" asked the prince, joyfully approaching her.
"Oh, I could not bear to stay there any longer. Herr Gross' daughters are finishing the dress. We will dine here, Prince; the meal can be served on a table near the house, under a wild-grape vine arbor. We can wait on ourselves for one day."
"Foroneday!" repeated the prince with great relief; "oh yes, it can be managed for one day." Thank Heaven, she had no intention of staying here.
"Oh, Prince, see how beautiful, how glorious it is!"
"Beautiful, glorious? Pardon me, but I see nothing to call forth words you so rarely use! You must have narrowed your demands if, after the view of the wondrous garden of the Isola Bella and all the Italian villas, you suddenly take delight in cabbage-stalks, wild-pears, broom, and colt's foot."
"Now see how you talk again!" replied the countess, unpleasantly affected by his words. "Does not Spinoza say: 'Everything is beautiful, and as I lose myself in the observation of its beauty, my pleasure in life is increased.'"
"That has not been your motto hitherto. You have usually found something to criticise in every object. It seems to me that you have wearied of the beautiful and now, by way of a change, find evenuglinessfair."
"Very true, my friend. I am satisfied, nothing charms me, nothing satisfies me, not even the loveliest scene, because I always apply to everything the standard of perfection, and nothing attains it." She shook herself suddenly as if throwing off a burden. "This must not continue, the æsthetic intolerance which poisoned every pleasure must end, I will cast aside the whole load of critical analysis and academic ideas of beauty, and snap my fingers at the ghosts of Winckelmann and Lessing. Here in the kitchen-garden, among cabbage-stalks and colt's foot, wild-pear and plum-trees, fanned by the fresh, crystal-clear air of the lofty mountains, whose glaciers shimmer with a bluish light through the branches, in the silence and solitude, I suddenly find it beautiful; beautiful because I am happy, because I am only a human being, free from every restraint, thinking nothing, feeling nothing save the peace of nature, the delight of this repose."
She rested her feet comfortably on the bench and, with her head thrown back, gazed with a joyous expression into the blue air which, after the rain, arched above the earth like a crystal bell.
This mood did not quite please the prince. He was exclusively a man of the world. His thoughts were ruled by the laws of the most rigid logic, whatever was not logically attainable had no existence for him; his enthusiasm reached the highest pitch only in the enjoyment of the noblest products of art and science. He did not comprehend how any one could weary of them, even for a moment, on the one side because his calm temperament did not, like the countess' passionate one, exhaust everything by following it to its inmost core, and he was thus guarded from satiety; on the other because he wholly lacked appreciation of nature and her unconscious grandeur. He was the trained vassal of custom in the conventional, as well as in every other province. The countess, however, possessed some touch of that doctrine of divine right which is ready, at any moment, to cast off the bonds of tradition and artificial models and obey the impulse of kinship with sovereign nature. This was the boundary across which he could not follow her, and he was perfectly aware of it, for he had one of those proud characters which disdain to deceive themselves concerning their own powers. Yet it filled him with grave anxiety.
"What are you thinking of now, Prince?" asked his companion, noticing his gloomy mood.
"That I have not seen you so contented for months, and yet I am unable to understand the cause of this satisfaction. Especially when I remember what it usually requires to bring a smile of pleasure to your lips."
"Dear me, must everything be understood?" cried the beautiful woman, laughing; "there is the pedant again! Must we be perpetually under the curb of self-control and give ourselves an account whether what we feel in a moment of happiness is sensible and authorized? Must we continually see ourselves reflected in the mirror of our self-consciousness, and never draw a veil over our souls and permit God to have one undiscovered secret in them?"
The prince silently kissed her hand. His eyes now expressed deep, earnest feeling, and stirred by emotion, she laid her other hand upon his head:
"You are a noble-hearted man, Prince; though some unspoken, uncomprehended idea stands between us, I know your feelings."
Again the rose and the thorn! It was always so! At the very moment her soft, sweet hand touched him caressingly, she thrust a dagger into his heart. Aye, that was the continual "misunderstanding" which existed between them, the thorn in the every rose she proffered.
Women like these are only tolerable when they really love; when a powerful feeling makes them surrender themselves completely. Where this is not the case, they are, unconsciously and involuntarily, malicious, dangerous creatures, caressing and slaying at the same moment.
First, woe betide the man whomthey believethey love. For how often such beings are mistaken in their feelings!
Such delusions do not destroy the woman, she often experiences them, but the man who has shared them with her! Alas for him who has not kept a cool head.
The prince was standing with his back turned to the street, gazing thoughtfully at the beautiful woman with the fathomless, sparkling eyes. Suddenly he saw her start and flush. Turning with the speed of lightning, he followed the direction of her glance, but saw nothing except the figure of a man of unusual height, with long black hair, pass swiftly around the corner and disappear.
"Do you know that gentleman?"
"No," replied the countess frankly, "he is the person whom I saw yesterday as we drove up the mountain."
"Pardon the indiscretion, but you blushed."
"Yes, I felt it, but I don't know why," she answered with an almost artless innocence in her gaze. The prince could not help smiling.
"Countess, Countess!" he said, shaking his finger at her as if she were a child. "Guard your imagination; it will prove a traitor some day."
The countess, as if with a sweet consciousness of guilt, drew down the uplifted hand with a movement of such indescribable grace that no one could have remained angry with her. The prince knelt at her feet an instant, not longer than a blade of grass requires to bend before the breeze and rise again, then he stood erect, somewhat paler than before, but perfectly calm.
"I'll go in and tell my valet to serve our dinner here."
"If you please, Prince," replied the lady, gazing absently down the street.
Andreas Gross entered the garden. "Everything is settled, Your Highness. I have talked with Josepha's relatives and guardian and they will be very glad to have you take her."
"All, even the Christ-Freyer?"
"Certainly, there is no objection."
She had expected something more and looked at the old man as if for the rest of the message, but he added nothing.
"Ought not Freyer to come here, in order to discuss the particulars with me?" she asked at last, almost timidly.
"Why, he goes to see no one, as I told you, and he surely would not come to speak of Josepha, for he is ashamed of her. He says that whatever you do will be satisfactory to him."
"Very well," replied the countess, in a somewhat disappointed tone.
"What a comical tête-à-tête!" a laughing voice suddenly exclaimed behind the fence. The countess started up, but it was too late for escape; she was caught.
A lady, young and elegantly dressed, accompanied by two older ones, eagerly rushed up to her.
"Dear Countess, why have you hidden yourself here at the farthest corner of the village? We have searched all Ammergau for you. Your coat-of-arms on the carriage and your liveries at the old post-house betrayed you. Yes, yes, when people want to travelincognito, they must not journey with genuine Wildenau elegance. We were more cautious. We came in a modest hired conveyance. But what a life this is! I was obliged to sleep on straw last night. Hear and shudder! Onstraw! Did you have a bed? You have been here since yesterday?"
"Why, Your Highness, pray take breath! Good morning, Baroness! Good morning, Your Excellency!"
The Countess von Wildenau greeted all the ladies somewhat absently, yet very cordially. "Will you condescend to sit on this bench?"
"Oh, you must sit here, too."
"No, It is not large enough, I am already seated."
She had taken her seat on the root of a tree, with her face turned toward the street, in which she seemed to be deeply interested. The ladies were accommodated on the bench, and then followed a conversation which no pen could describe. This, that, and the other thing, matters to which the countess had not given a single thought, an account of everything the new comers had heard about the Ammergau people, the appearance of the Christ, whom they had already met, a handsome man, very handsome, with magnificent hair, and mysterious eyes--not the head of Christ, but rather as one would imagine Faust or Odin; but there was no approaching him, he was so unsociable. Such a pity, it would have been so interesting to talk with him. Rumor asserted that he was in love with a noble lady; it was very possible, there was no other way of explaining his distant manner.
Countess von Wildenau had become very quiet, the eyes bent upon the street had an expression of actual suffering in their depths.
Prince Emil stood in the doorway, mischievously enjoying the situation. It was a just punishment for her capricious whims that now, after having so insolently refused to see her friends, she should be compelled to listen to this senseless chatter.
At last, however, he took pity on her and sent out his valet with the table-cloth and plates.
"Oh, it is your dinner hour!" The ladies started up and Her Highness raised her lorgnette.
"Ah, Prince Emil's valet! So the faithful Toggenburg is with you."
"Certainly, ladies!" said a voice from the door, as the prince came forward. "Only I was too timid to venture into such a dangerous circle."
Peals of laughter greeted him.
"Yes, yes; the Prince of Metten-Barnheim timid!"
"At present I am merely the representative of Countess Wildenau's discharged courier, whose office, with my usual devotion, I am trying to fill, and doing everything in my power to escape the fate of my predecessor."
"That of being sent away?" asked the baroness somewhat maliciously.
Countess Madeleine cast a glance of friendly reproach at him. "How can you say such things, Prince?"
"Your soup is growing cold!" cried the duchess.
"Where does Your Highness dine?"
"At the house of one of the chorus singers, where we are lodging. A man with the bearing of an apostle, and a blacksmith by trade. It is strange, all these people have a touch of ideality about them, and all this beautiful long hair! Haven't you walked through the village yet? Oh, you must, it's very odd; the people who throng around the actors in the Passion Play are types we shall not soon see again. I'm waiting eagerly for to-morrow. I hope our seats will be near. Farewell, dear Countess!" The duchess took the arm of the prince, who escorted her to the garden gate. "I hope you will take care that the countess, under the influence of the Passion, doesn't enter a convent the day after to-morrow."
"Your Highness forgets that I am an incorrigible heretic," laughed Madeleine Wildenau, kissing the two ladies in waiting, in her absence of mind, with a tenderness which they were at a loss to understand.
The prince accompanied the ladies a short distance away from the house, while Madeleine returned to Josepha, as if seeking in the society of the sorrowful, quiet creature, rest from the noisy conversation.
"Really, Countess von Wildenau has an over-supply of blessings. This magnificent widow's dower, the almost boundless revenue from the Wildenau estates, and a host of suitors!" said the baroness, after the prince had taken leave to return to "his idol."
"Yes, but she will lose the revenue if she marries again," replied the duchess. "The will was made in that way by Count Wildenau because his jealousy extended beyond the grave. I know all the particulars. She must either remain a widow or make averybrilliant match; for a woman of her temperament couldneveraccommodate herself to more modest circumstances."
"So she is not a good match?" asked Her Excellency.
"Certainly not, for the will is so worded that on the day she exchanges the name of Wildenau for another, the estates, with the whole income, go to a side branch of the Wildenau family as there are no direct heirs. It is enough to make one hate him, for the Wildenau cousins are extravagant and avaricious men who have already squandered one fortune. The poor countess will then have nothing except her personal property, her few diamonds, and whatever gifts she received from her husband."
"Has she no private fortune?" asked the baroness, curiously.
"You know that she was a Princess Prankenburg, and the financial affairs of the Prankenburg family are very much embarrassed. That is why the beautiful young girl was sacrificed at seventeen to that horrible old Wildenau, who in return was forced to pay her father's debts," the duchess explained.
"Oh, sothat'sthe way the matter stands!" said Her Excellency, drawing a long breath. "Do her various admirers know it? All the gentlemen undoubtedly believe her to be immensely rich."
"Oh, she makes no secret of these facts," replied the duchess kindly. "She is sincere, that must be acknowledged, and she endured a great deal with her nervous old husband. We all know what he was; every one feared him and he tyrannized over his wife. What was all her wealth and splendor to her? One ought not to grudge her a taste of happiness."
"She laid aside her widow's weeds as soon as possible. People thought that very suspicious," observed the baroness in no friendly tone.
"That is exactly why I say: she is better than her reputation, because she scorns falsehood and hypocrisy," replied the duchess, leading the way across a narrow bridge. The two ladies in waiting, lingering a little behind, whispered: "Shescorn falsehood and deception! Why, Your Excellency, her whole nature is treachery. She cannot exist a moment without acting some farce! With the pious she is pious, with the Liberals she plays the Liberal, she coquets with every party to maintain her influence as ex-ambassadress. She cannot cease intriguing and plotting. Now she is once more assuming the part of youthful artlessness to bewitch this Prince Emil. Did you see that look of embarrassment just now, like a young girl? It is enough to make one ill!"
"Yes, just see how she has duped that handsome, clever prince, the heir of a reigning family, too," lamented Her Excellency, who had daughters. "It is a shocking affair, he is seen everywhere with her; and yet there is no report of a betrothal! What do the men find in her? She captivates them all, young and old, there is no difference."
"And she is no longer evenbeautiful. She has faded, lost all her freshness, it is nothing but coquetry!" answered the baroness hastily, for the duchess had stopped and was waiting for the ladies to overtake her. So they walked on in the direction of the Passion Theatre where, on the morrow, they were to behold the God of Love, for whose sake they made this pious pilgrimage.
"You were rightly served, Countess Madeleine," said the prince laughing, as they took their seats at the table. "You sent away your true friends and fell into the hands of these false ones."
"The duchess is not false," answered the countess with a weary look, "she is noble in thought and act."
"Like all who are in a position where they need envy no one," said the prince, pushing aside with his spoon certain little islands of doubtful composition which were floating in the soup. "But believe me, with these few exceptions, no one save men, deals sincerely with an admired woman. Women of the ordinary stamp cannot repress their envy. I should not like to hear what is being said of us by these friends on their way home."
"What does it matter?" answered his companion, leaving her soup untasted.
"Our poor diplomatic corps, which had anticipated so much pleasure in seeing you," the prince began again. "I would almost like to ask you a favor, Countess!"
"What is it?"
"That you will invite us to dine day after to-morrow. The gentlemen have resolved to avenge themselves nobly by offering you an ovation on your return to Munich to-morrow evening."
"Indeed, what is it?"
"I ought not to betray the secret, but I know that you do not like surprises. The Wildenau palace will be transformed into a temple of flowers. Everything is already ordered, it is to be matchless, fairy like!"
The speaker was secretly watching the impression made by his words; he must get her away from this place at any cost! The mysterious figure which had just called to her cheeks a flush for whose sake he would have sacrificed years of his life, then he had noticed--nothing escaped his keen eye and ear--her annoyed, almost jealous expression when the ladies spoke of the "raven-locked" Christ and his love for some high-born dame. She must leave this place ere the whim gained a firm hold. The worthy peasant-performer might not object to the admiration of noble ladies, a pinchback theatre-saint would hardly resist a Countess Wildenau, if she should choose to make him the object of an eccentric caprice.
"It is very touching in the gentlemen," said the countess; "let us anticipate them and invite them to dine the day after to-morrow."
"Ah, there spoke my charming friend, now I am content with you. Will you permit me, at the close of this luxurious meal, to carry the joyous tidings to the gentlemen?"
"Do so," she answered carelessly. "And when you have delivered the invitation, would you do me the favor to telegraph to my steward?"
"Certainly." He pushed back the plate containing an unpalatable cutlet and drew out his note-book to make a memorandum.
"What shall I write?"
"Steward Geres, Wildenau Palace, Munich.--Day after to-morrow, Monday, Dinner at 6 o'clock, 12 plates, 15 courses," dictated the countess.
"There, that is settled. But, Countess, twelve persons! Whom do you intend to invite?"
"When I return the duchess' visit I will ask the three ladies, then Prince Hohenheim and Her Excellency's two daughters will make twelve."
"But that will be terribly wearisome to the neighbors of Her Excellency's daughters."
"Yes, still it can't be helped, I must give the poor girls a chance to make their fortune! With the exception of Prince Hohenheim, you are all in the market!" she said smiling.
"No one could speak so proudly save a Countess Wildenau, who knows that every other woman only serves as a foil," replied the prince, kissing her hand with a significant smile. She was remarkably gracious that day; she permitted her hand to rest in his, there was a shade of apology in her manner. Apology for what? He had no occasion to ponder long--she was ashamed of having neglected a trusted friend for a chimera, a nightmare, which had assumed the form of a man with mysterious black eyes and floating locks. The ladies' stories of the love affairs of the presumptive owner of these locks had destroyed the dream and broken the spell of the nightmare.
"Admirable, it had happened very opportunely."
"But, Countess, the gentlemen will be disappointed, if the ladies, also, come. Would it not be much pleasanter without them? You are far more charming and entertaining when you are the only lady present at our little smoking parties."
"We can have one later. The ladies will leave at ten. Then you others can remain."
"And who will be sent awaynext, when you are wearied by thisaprès soirée? Who will be allowed to linger on a few minutes and smoke the last cigarette with you?" he added, coaxingly. He looked very handsome at that moment.
"We shall see," replied the countess, and for the first time her voice thrilled with a warmer emotion. Her hand still rested in his, she had forgotten to withdraw it. Suddenly its warmth roused her, and his blue eyes flashed upon her a light as brilliant as the indiscreet glare which sometimes rouses a sleeper.
She released it, and as the dinner was over, rose from the little table.
"Will you go with me to call on the duchess later?" she asked. "If so, I will dress now, while you give the invitation to the gentlemen, and you can return afterward."
"As you choose!" replied the prince in an altered tone, for the slight variation in the lady's mood had not escaped his notice. "In half an hour, then. Farewell!"