The great number of strangers who were unable to get tickets the day before had rendered a second performance necessary. The countess did not attend it. To her the play had been no spectacle, but an experience--a repetition would have degraded it to a mere drama. She had spent the day in retirement, like a prisoner, that she might not fall into the hands of any acquaintances. Now the distant rumble of carriages announced the close of the performance. It was a delightful autumn evening. The Gross family came to the window on their return home, and wondered to find the countess still in her room. The sounds of stifled sobs echoed from the work room. The other lodgers in the house had come back from the theatre and, like every one, were paying their tribute of tears. An American had gone to-day for the second time. He sat weeping on the bench near the stove, and said that it had been even more touching than yesterday. Andreas Gross assented: "Yes, Joseph Freyer never played as he did to-day."
The countess, sitting in her room, heard the words and was strangely moved. Why had he never played as he didto-day?
Some one tapped gently on the door.
A burning blush suffused the countess' face--hadhe--? He might have passed through the garden from the other side to avoid the spectators. "Come in!" she called.
It was Josepha with a telegram in her hand. The messenger was waiting for an answer.
The countess opened it and read the contents. It was from the prince. "Please inform me whether I shall countermand the dinner."
"Very well. I will send the reply."
Josepha withdrew.
"If Ludwig were only here!" thought the countess. "He must be waiting to bring Freyer, as he did yesterday."
The rapid pulsing of her heart almost stifled her. One quarter of an hour passed after another. At last Ludwig came--but alone.
The countess was sitting at the open window and Ludwig paused beside it.
"Well, how was the play to-day?"
"Magnificent," he replied. "I never saw Freyer so superb. He was perfect, fairly superhuman! It is a pity that you were not there."
"Did he inquire for me?"
"Yes. I explained to him that you did not wish to see it a second time--and for what reason. He nodded and said: 'I am glad the lady feels so.'"
"Then--we understand each other!" The countess drew a long breath. "Did you ask him to come here with you?"
"No. I thought I ought not to do that--he must come now of his own free will, or you would be placed in a false position."
"You are right--I thank you!" said the countess, turning pale and biting her lips. "Do you think that--he will come?"
"Unfortunately, no--he went directly home."
"Will you do me a favor?"
"Certainly, Countess."
"Despatch a telegram for me. I have arranged to give a dinner party at home and should like to send a message that I am coming."
"You will not remain here longer?"
"No!" she said in a tone sharp and cutting as a knife which is thrust into one's own heart. "Come in, please."
Ludwig obeyed the command and she wrote with the bearing of a queen signing a death-warrant:
"Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim, Munich.
"Will come at five to-morrow. Dinner can be given.
"Madeleine."
"Here, if you will be so kind," she said, handing the sheet to Ludwig.
The latter gazed earnestly at her, as though he wanted to say: "If only you don't repent it." But he asked the question in the modest wording: "Shall I send itat once?"
"Yes, if you please!" she answered, and her whole manner expressed a coldness which startled Ludwig.
"Can genuine warmth of heart freeze so quickly?" he asked himself. Madeleine von Wildenau felt the mute reproach and disappointment in Ludwig's manner. She felt, too, that he was right, and called him back as he reached the door. "Give it to me," she said, taking the telegram, "I will consider the matter." Then meeting the eyes of the noble man, which now brightened again for her sake, she added earnestly, holding out her hand, "You understand me better than I do myself."
"I thank you for those words--they make me very proud, Countess!" said Ludwig with a radiant glance, placing the telegram on the table. "I will go now that I may not disturb you while you are considering what course to pursue."
He left the room. Twilight was gathering. The countess sat by the table holding the telegram clenched in her little hand.
"The people of Ammergau unconsciously exercise a moral constraint which is irresistible. There is a power of truth in them which prevents even self-deception in their presence!" she murmured half defiantly, half admiringly. What was to be done now? To remain longer here and countermand the dinner meant a positive breach with society. But who was therehereto thank her for such a sacrifice? Who cared for the Countess Wildenau? She was one of the thousands who came and went, taking with them a lofty memory, without leaving any remembrance in the mind of any one. Why should she hold them accountable if she gave to this impression a significance which was neither intended nor suspected. We must not force upon men sacrifices which they do not desire!
She rested her arm on the table and sat irresolute. Now--now in this mood, to return to the prosaic, superficial round, after imagining yesterday that she stood face to face with deity?Couldshe do it? Was not the mute reproach in Ludwig's glance true? She thoughtfully rested her beautiful face on her hand.
She had not noticed a knock at the door, a carriage was driving by whose rattle drowned every sound. For the same reason the person outside, supposing that he had not heard the "come in!" softy opened the door. At the noise the countess raised her head--Freyer stood before her.
"You have come, youdidcome!" she exclaimed, starting up and seizing his hand that the sweet, blissful dream might not vanish once more.
"Excuse me if I disturb you," he said in a low, timid tone. "I--I should not have come--but I could not bear to stay at home, I was so excited to-day. When evening came, some impulse drove me here--I was--I had--"
"You had a desire to talk to some one who could understand you, and this urged you to me, did it not?"
"Yes, Countess! But I should not have ventured to come in, had not--"
"Well?"
"Ludwig met me and said that you were going away--"
"Ah--and did you regret it?"
"I wished at least to bid you farewell and thank you for all your kindness to my unhappy cousin Josepha!" he said evasively. "I neglected to do so yesterday, I was so embarrassed."
"You are not sincere with me, Herr Freyer!" said the countess, motioning to him to sit down. "This expression of thanks does not come from your heart, for you do not care what I do for Josepha. That is merely the pretext for coming to me--because you do not wish to confess what really brought you. Am I not right?"
"Countess!" said Freyer, completely disconcerted, as he tried to rise.
She gently laid her hand on his, detaining him. "Stay! Your standard is so rigid in everything--what is your view of truth?"
Freyer fixed his eyes on the floor.
"Is ittrue, when you say that you came to thank me for Josepha? Were you not drawn hither by the feeling that, of all the thousands of souls who pass you in the course of the summer, perhaps there is not one who could understand you and your task as I do?"
Freyer clasped his hands on his knees and silently bent his head.
"Perhaps you have not thought of me as I have thought of you, all day long, since our eyes met on the mountain, as though some higher power had pointed us out to each other."
Freyer remained silent, but as the full cup overflows at the slightest movement, tears again gushed from his eyes.
"Why did you look at me so from head to foot, pouring forth in that gaze your whole soul with a world of grief and joy, as a blossoming tree showers its flowers on the passer-by? Surely not on account of a woman's face, though it may be passably fair, but because you felt that I perceived the Christ in you and that it wasHefor whom I came. Your glance meant to tell me: 'It is I whom you are seeking!' and I believe you. And when at last the promise was fulfilled and the long sought redeemer stood before me, was it by chance that his prophetic eye discovered me among the thousands of faces when he said: 'But in many hearts day will soon dawn!' Did you not seek me, as we look for a stranger to whom we must fulfill a promise given on the journey?"
Freyer now raised his dark eyes and fixed them full upon her, but made no reply.
"And is it true that you came yesterday, only because Ludwig wished it, you who, spite of all entreaties, have kept ladies who had the world at their feet waiting on your stairs for hours? Did you not come because you suspected that I might be the woman with whom, since that meeting, you had had some incomprehensible spiritual bond?"
Freyer covered his eyes with his hand, as if he was afraid more might be read in them.
"Be truthful, Herr Freyer, it is unworthy of you and of me to play a conventional farce. I am compelled to act so many in my life that I would fain for once be frank, as mortal to mortal! Tell me simply, have I judged correctly--yes or no?"
"Yes!" whispered Freyer, without looking up.
She gently drew his hand down. "And to-day--to-day--did you come merely out of gratitude for your cousin?" she questioned with the archness of her increasing certainty of happiness.
He caught the little hand with which she had clasped his, and raised it ardently to his lips; then, as if startled that he had allowed himself to be carried so far, he flung back his raven locks as if they had deluded his senses, and pushed his chair farther away in order not to be again led into temptation. She did not interfere--she knew that he was in her power--struggle as he might, the dart was fixed. Yet the obstacles she had to conquer were great and powerful. Coquetry would be futile, only the moral force of agenuinefeeling could cope with them, and of this she was conscious, with a happiness never felt before. Again she searched her own heart, and her rapid glance wandered from the thorn-scarred brow of the wonderful figure before her, to pierce the depths of her own soul. Her love for him was genuine, she was not toying with his heart; she wished, like Mary Magdalene, to sanctify herself in his love. But she was the Magdalene in thefirststage. Had Christ been aman, and attainable likethisman, what transformations the Penitent's heart must have undergone, ere its fires wrought true purification.
"Herr Freyer," the countess began in a low, eager tone, "you said yesterday that it troubled you when people showed you idolatrous reverence and you felt that you thereby robbed your Master. Can we give aught to any earthly being without giving it toGod?"
Freyer listened intently.
"Is there any soul which does not belong to God, did not emanate fromHim, is not a part ofHispower? And does not that which flows from one part to another stream back in a perpetual circle to theCreator? We cantakenothing which does not come from God,givenothing which does not return to Him. Do you know the principle of the preservation of power?"
"No," said Freyer, confused by his ignorance of something he was asked.
"Well, it can be explained in a very few words. Science has proved that nothing in the universe can be lost, that even a force which is apparently uselessly squandered is merely transformed into another. Thus in God nothing can be lost, even though it has no direct relation to Him--for he is thespiritualuniverse. True,everyfeeling does not produce a work of God, any more than every effort of nature brings forth some positive result. But as in the latter case the force expended is not lost, because it produces other, though secondary results, so inGodno sentiment of love and enthusiasm is lost, even though it may relate to Him only in a secondary degree."
"Very true."
"Then if thatisso,--how can any one rob this God, who surrounds us like the universe, from which we come, into which we pass again, and in which our forces are constantly transformed in a perpetual round of change."
Freyer rested his head on his hand, absorbed in thought.
"And if a feeling is so deeply rooted in religion, so directly associated with God as that which men offer to you. His representative, why should you have these scruples?"
"I have never heard any one talk in this way! Pardon my faint-heartedness, and ignorance--I am a poor, simple-hearted man--you will be indulgent, will you not?"
"Freyer!" cried the countess, deeply moved, and spite of the distance to which he had pushed his chair, held out her hand.
"You see, I had no opportunity to attend a higher school, I was so poor. I lost my parents when a lad of twelve and received only the most necessary instruction. All my knowledge I obtained afterwards by reading, and it is of course defective and insufficient. On our mountains, beside our rushing streams, among the hazel bushes whose nuts were often my only food, I grew up, watching the horses sent to pasture with their colts. Up by St. Gregory's chapel, where the Leine falls over the cliffs, I left the animals grazing in the wide meadows, flung myself down in a field of gentian and, lying on my back, gazed upward into the blue sky and thought it must surely open, the transparent atmospheremustat last be pierced--as the bird imagines, when it dashes its head against a pane of glass--so I learned to think of God! And when my brain and heart grew giddy, as if I were destined for something better, when a longing overwhelmed me which my simple meditations could not quell, I caught one of my young horses by the mane, swung myself on its bare back, and swept over the broad plain, feeling myself a king."
He extended his arms, and now his face was suddenly transformed--laughing, bright, joyous as the Swedes imagine their Neck, the kind, friendly water sprite who still retains some of the mythical blood of the Northern god of Spring, Freyer's namesake. "Ah, Countess--that was poetry! Who could restorethosedays; that childish ignorance, that happy hope, that freedom of innocence!"
Again, like the pictures in a kaleidoscope, his expression changed and a gloomy melancholy spread its veil over his brow. "Alas!--that is all over! My light-footed colts have become weary, clumsy animals, dragging loaded wains, and I--I drag no less wearily the burden of life."
"How can you speak so at the moment when, yourself a miracle, you are revealing to men the miracles of God? Is it not ungrateful!"
"Oh, no, Countess, I am grateful! But I do not so separate myself from my part that I could be happy while portraying the sufferings of my Redeemer! Do you imagine that I have merely learned the words by heart? With His form, I have also taken His cross upon me! Since that time all my youth has fled and a touch of pain pervades my whole life."
"Then you are His true follower--then you are doing what Simon of Cyrene did! And doyoubelieve that you ought not to accept even the smallest portion of the gratitude which men owe to the Crucified One? Must you share only His sufferings, not His joys, the joys bestowed by the love and faith of moved and converted souls? Surely if you are so narrow-minded, you understand neither yourself nor the love of God, Who has chosen and favored you from among millions to renew to the world the forgotten message of salvation."
"Oh God, oh God!--help me to keep my humility--this is too much."
Freyer started up and pressed his hand upon his brow as if to ward off an invisible crown which was descending upon it.
The countess also rose and approached him. "Freyer, the suffering you endure for Christ's sake, I share with you! It is the mystery in which our souls found each other. Pain is eternal, Freyer, and that to which it gives birth is imperishable! What do we feel when we stand before a painted or sculptured image of the Crucified One? Pity, the most agonizing pity! I have never been willing to believe it--but since yesterday I have known that it is a solace to the believing soul to bestow a tender embrace upon the lifeless image and to touch the artificial wounds with ardent lips. What must it be when that image loves, feels, and suffers! When it speaks to us in tones that thrill the inmost heart? When we see it quiver and bleed under the lashes of the executioner--when the sweat of agony trickles from the brow andrealtears flow from the eyes? I ask,whatmust this be to us? Imagine yourself for once the person whosees this--and then judge whether it is not overpowering? If faith in thestoneChrist works miracles--why should not belief in thelivingone do far more? The pious delusion is so much the greater, andfaithbrings blessing."
She clasped her hands upon his breast
"Come, image of mercy, bend down to me. Let me clasp your beloved head and press upon your tortured brow the kiss of reconciliation for all penitent humanity!" Then, taking his face between her hands, she lightly pressed a fervent kiss upon the brow gently inclined toward her. "Now go and lament that you have robbed your Master of this kiss. He will ask, with a smile: 'Do you know for whom that kiss was meant--theeorme?' And you will be spared an answer, for when you raise your eyes to Him, you will find it imprinted onHisbrow."
She paused, overpowered by the sacredness of the moment. There are times when our own words influence us like some unknown force, because they express something which has been so deeply concealed in our hearts that we ourselves were ignorant of its existence. This was the case now with the countess. Freyer stood silently with clasped hands, as if in church.
It seemed as though some third person was addressing them--an invisible person whom they must hold their very breath to understand.
It had grown late. The waning moon floated high above the low window and brightened the little room with its cheering rays. The countess nodded. "It is fulfilled!" Then she laid her hands in Freyer's: "For the first time since my childhood I place my soul in the keeping of a human being! For the first time since my childhood, I strip off all the arrogance of reason, for a higher perception is hovering above me, drawing nearer and nearer with blissful certainty! Is it love, is it faith? Whichever it may be--God dwells inboth. And--if philosophy says: 'Ithink, therefore Iam,' I say: 'Ilove, therefore Ibelieve!'"
She humbly bowed her head. "And therefore I beseech you. Bless me, you who are so divinely endowed, with the blessing which is shed upon and emanates from you!"
Freyer raised his eyes to Heaven as if to call down the benediction she implored, and there was such power in the fervid gaze that Madeleine von Wildenau experienced a thrill almost of fear, as if in the presence of some supernatural being. Then he made the sign of the cross over her: "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
A tremor of foreboding ran through her limbs as if the finger of God had marked her for some mysterious destination and, with this rune, she had been enrolled in the pallid host of those consecrated by sorrow as followers of the deity.
With sweet submission she clasped the hand which had just imprinted the mournful sign on brow and breast: "In the name of God, if onlyyouare near me!" Her head drooped on her bosom. Some one knocked at the door, the countess' brain reeled so much that she was forced to cling to Freyer for support.
Josepha timidly asked if she wanted a light.
"Light! Was itdark?"
"Very well," she answered absently.
Josepha brought the lamp and enquired when the countess desired to have supper? Freyer took his hat to go.
"I shall eat nothing more to-night!" said the countess in a curt, impatient tone, and Josepha timidly withdrew.
Madeleine von Wildenau covered her face with both hands like a person who had been roused from a beautiful dream to bare reality.
"Alas--that there must be other people in the world, besides ourselves!" She sighed heavily, as if to take breath after the terrible fall. Freyer, hat in hand, approached her, calm and self-controlled. Joseph Freyer, addressing Countess Wildenau, had no remembrance of what the penitent soul had just confided to the image of the Redeemer.
"Allow me to take my leave, your Highness," he said in a gentle, but distant tone.
The countess understood the delicate modesty of this conduct. "Did your blue gentians teach this tact? It would seem that lonely pastures, whispering hazel copses, and dashing mountain streams are better educators of the heart, for those who understand their mysterious language, than many of our schools."
Freyer was silent a moment, then with eyes bent on the floor, he said: "May I ask when your Highness intends to leave to-morrow?"
"MustI go, Freyer?"
"Your Highness--"
"Here is a telegram which announces my arrival at home to-morrow. Tell me, Freyer, shall I send it?"
"How canIdecide--" stammered Freyer in confusion.
"I wish to know whether you--you, Freyer, would like to keep me here?"
"But Good Heavens, your Highness--is it seemly for me to express such a wish? Of course it will be a great pleasure to have you remain--but how could I seek to influence you in any way?"
"Mere phrases!" said the countess, disappointed and offended. "Then, if it is a matter of indifference to you whether I go or stay, I will send the telegram." She went to the table to add something.
Suddenly he stood close beside her, with a beseeching, tearful glance--and laid his hand upon the paper.
"No--do not send it."
"Not send it?" asked Madeleine in blissful expectation. "Not send it--then what am I to do?"
His lips moved several times, as if he could not utter the word--but at last it escaped from his closed heart, and with an indescribable smile he murmured: "Stay!"
Ah! A low cry of exultation escaped the countess, and the telegram lay torn upon the table. Then with a trembling hand she wrote the second, which she requested him to send at once. It contained only the words: "Am ill--cannot come!"
He was still standing at her side, and she gave it to him to read.
"Is it true?" he asked, after glancing at it, looking at her with timid, sportive reproach. "Are you ill?"
"Yes!" she said caressingly, laying her hand, as if she felt a pang, upon her heart. "Iam!"
He clasped both in his own and asked softly in a tone which sent a thrill of happiness through every vein: "How shall wecurethis illness?"
She felt his warm breath on her waving hair--and dared not stir.
Then, with sudden resolution he shook off the thrall: "Good-night, Countess!"
The next moment he was hurrying past the window.
Ludwig, wondering at his Mend's hasty departure, entered.
"What has happened, Countess?"
"Signs and wonders have happened," she said, extending her arms as if transfigured.
"Rise Mary! Night is darkening and the wintry storms are raging--but be comforted, in the early morning, in the Spring garden, you will see me again."
The countess woke from a short slumber as if some one had uttered the words aloud. She glanced around the dusky room, it was still early, scarcely a glimmer of light pierced through the chinks of the shutters. She tried to sleep again, but in vain. The words constantly rang in her ears: "In the early morning you will see me again." Now the chinks in the shutters grew brighter, and one golden arrow after another darted through. The countess threw aside the coverlet and started up. Why should she torment herself with trying to court sleep? Outside a dewy garden offered its temptations.
True, it was an autumn, not a spring garden. Yet for her it was Spring--it had dawned in her heart--the first springtime of her life.
Up and away! Should she wake Josepha, who slept above her? Nay, no sound, no word must disturb this sacred morning stillness.
She dressed and, half an hour later, glided lightly, unseen, into the garden.
The clock in the church steeple was striking six. A fresh autumn breeze swept like a band of jubilant sprites through the tops of the ancient trees, then rushing downward, tossed her silken hair as though it would fain bear away the filmy strands to some envious wood-nymph to weave nets from it for the poor mortals who might lose themselves in her domain.
On the ground at her feet, too, the grasses and shrubs swayed and rustled as if little gnomes were holding high revel there. A strange mood pervaded all nature.
Madeleine von Wildenau looked upward; there were huge cloud-shapes in the sky, but the sun was shining brightly in a broad expanse of blue. The bells were ringing for early mass. The countess clasped her hands. Everything was silent and lonely, no eye beheld, no ear heard her, save the golden orb above. The birds carolling their matin songs, the flowers whose cups were filled with morning dew, the buzzing, humming bees--all were celebrating the great matins of awakening nature--and she, whose heart was full of the morning dew of the first genuine feeling of her life, was she alone not to join in the chorus of gratitude of refreshed creation?
There is a language whose key we do not possess. It is the Sanscrit of Nature and of the human soul when it communes with the deity. The countess sank silently down on the dewy grass. She did not pray in set words--there was an interchange of thought, her heart spoke to God, and reason knew not what it confided to Him.
In the early morning in the spring garden "thou wilt see me again!" There again spoke the voice which had roused her so early! The countess raised her head--but still remained kneeling as if spell-bound. Before her stood the Promised One.
She could say nothing save the word uttered by Mary Magdalene: "Master!"
A loving soul can never be surprised by the object of its love because it expects him always and everywhere, yet it appears a miracle when its expectation becomes fulfilment.
"Have I interrupted your prater? I did not see you because you were kneeling"--he said, gently.
"You interrupt my prayer--you who first taught me to pray?" she asked, holding out her hand that he might help her rise. "Tell me, how did you come here?"
"I could not sleep--some yearning urged me to your presence--to your garden."
He gently raised her, while she gazed into his eyes as if enraptured. "Master!" she repeated. "Oh, my friend, I was like Mary Magdalene, my Lord had been taken away and I knew not where they had laid Him. Now I know. He was buried in my own heart and the world had rolled the stone before it, but yesterday--yesterday He rose and the stone was cast aside. So some impulse urged me into the garden early this morning to seek Him and lo--He stands before me as He promised."
"Do not speak so!--I am well aware that the words are not meant for me, but if you associate Christ so closely with my personality, I fear that you will confound Him with me, and that His image will be dimmed, if anything should ever shadow mine! I beseech you, Countess, by all that is sacred--learn to separate Him from me--or you have not grasped the true nature of Christ, and my work will be evil!" He stood before her with hand uplifted in prophecy, the outlines of his powerful form were sharply relieved against the dewy, shining morning air. Purity, chastity, the loftiest, most inspired earnestness were expressed in his whole bearing, all the dignity of the soul and of primeval, divinely created human nature.
Must not she have that feeling of adoration which always seizes upon us whenever, no matter where it may be, the deity is revealed in His creations? No, she did not understand what he meant, she only understood that there was something divine in him, and that the perception of this nearness to God filled her with a happiness never known before. Joseph Freyer was the guarantee of the existence of a God in whom she had lost faith--why should she imagine Him in any other form than the one which she had found Him again? "Thou shalt make thyself no graven image!" Must this Puritanically misunderstood literal statement destroy man's dearest possession, thesymbol of the reality? Then the works of Raphael, Titian, and Rubens must be effaced, and the unions of miracles of faith, wrought in the souls of the human race by the representations of the divine nature.
"Oh blessed image-worship, now I understand your meaning!" she joyously exclaimed. "Whoever reviles you has never felt the ardent desire of the weak human heart, the captive of the senses, for contact with the unapproachable, the sight of the face of the ever concealed yet ever felt divinity. Here, here stands the most perfect image Heaven and earth ever created, and must I not kneel before it, clasp it with all the tendrils of my aspiring soul? No! No one ought, no one can prevent me."
Half defiantly, half imploringly, the words poured from her inmost soul like molten lava. "Let all misunderstand me--saveyou, Freyer! You, by whom God wrought the miracle, ought not to be narrow-minded!Youought not to destroy it for me, you least of all!" Then she pleaded, appealed to him: "Let saints, let glorified spirits grasponlythe essence and dispense with the earthly pledge--I cannot! I am a type of the millions who live snared by the weaknesses, the ideas, the pleasures of the world of sense; do you suddenly require of me the abstract purity and spiritualization of religious thought, to which only the highest innate or required perfection leads? Be forbearing to me--God has various ways of drawing the rebellious to Him! To the soul which is capable of material ideas only. He gives revelations by the senses until, through pain and sorrow, it has worked its way upward to intellectual ones. And until I can behold therealGod in His shadowy sphere, I shall cling lovingly and devoutly to Hisimage."
She sank on her knees before him in passionate entreaty. "Do not destroy it for me, rather aid the pious delusion which is to save me! Bear patiently with the woe of a soul seeking its salvation, and leave the rest to God!" She leaned her brow against the hand which hung by his side and was silent from excess of emotion.
The tall, stalwart man stood trembling as Abraham may have stood before the thicket when God stayed his uplifted arm and cried in tender love: "I will not accept thy sacrifice."
He had a presentiment that the victim would be snatched from him also, if he was too stern, and all the floods of his heart burst forth, all the flood gates of love and pity opened. Bending down, he held her head in a close, warm clasp between both hands, and touched her forehead with quivering lips.
A low cry of unutterable bliss, and she sank upon his breast; the next instant she lifted her warm rosy lips to his.
But he drew back a step in agonizing conflict; "No, Countess, for Heavens's sake no, it must not be."
"Why not?" she asked, her face blanching.
"Let me remain worthy of the miracle God has wrought upon you through me. If I am to represent Christ to you, I must at least feel and think as He did, so far as my human weakness will permit, or everything will be a deception."
The countess covered her face with her hands. "Ah, no one can utter such words who knows aught of love and longing!" she moaned between her set teeth in bitter scorn.
"Do you think so?" exclaimed Freyer, and the tone in which he spoke pierced her heart like a cry of pain. Drawing her hands from her face, he forced her to meet his glowing eyes: "Look at me and see whether the tears which now course down my cheeks express no love and longing. Look at yourself, your sweet, pouting lips, your sparkling eyes, all your radiant charms, and ask yourself whether a man into whose arms such a woman fallscanremain unmoved? When you have answered these questions, say to yourself: 'How that man must love his Saviour, if he buys with such sacrifices the right to wear His crown of thorns!' Perhaps you will then better understand what I said just now of the spirit and nature of Christ."
Countess Madeleine made no reply, but wringing her hands, bent her eyes on the ground.
"Have I wounded you, Countess?"
"Yes, unto death. But it is best so. I understand you. If I am to love you as Christ, you mustbeChrist. And the more severe you are, the higher you raise me! Alas--the pain is keen!" She pressed her hand upon her heart as though to close a wound, a pathetic expression of resignation rested on her pallid face.
"Oh, Countess, do not make my task too hard for me. I am but mortal! Oh, how can I see you suffer?Ican renounce everything, but to hurtyouin doing so--is beyond my power."
"Do not sayyouin this solemn hour! Call me by my name, I would fain hear it once from your lips!"
"And whatisyour name?"
"Maria Magdalena."
"No. You call yourself so under the impression of the Passion Play."
"I was christened Maria Magdalena von Prankenberg."
"Maria Magdalena," he repeated, his eyes resting upon her with deep emotion as she stood before him, she whose bearing was usually so haughty, now humble, silent, submissive, like the Penitent before the Master. Suddenly, overpowered by his feelings, he extended his arms: "MyMagdalena."
"My Master, my salvation," she sobbed, throwing herself upon his breast. He clasped her with a divine gesture of love in his embrace.
"Oh, God she has flown hither like a frightened dove and nestled in my breast. Poor dove, I will conceal and protect you from every rude breeze, from every base touch of the world! Build your nest in my heart--here you shall rest in the peace of God!" He pressed her head close to his heart.
"How you tremble, dove! May I call you so?"
"Oh, forever!"
"Are you wearied by your long flight? Poor dove! Have you fluttered hither to me across the wild surges of the world, to bring the olive branch, the token of reconciliation, which makes my peace with things temporal and eternal? And must I now thrust you from me, saying as Christ said to Magdalene! 'Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father?' Shall I drive you forth again into this chaos, that the faithful wings which bore you on the right way may droop exhausted till you perish in the billows of the world?" He clasped her still more closely: "Oh, God! This cannot be Thy will! But I think I understand Thee, Omnipotent One--Thou hastentrustedthis soul to me, and I will guard it for Theeloyally!"
It was an hour of sacred happiness. Her head rested on his breast. Not a leaf stirred on the boughs. The dense shadow of the beeches surrounded them, separating them from the world as if the universe contained naught save this one spot of earth, and the dream of this moment.
"Tell meonething," she whispered, "only one, and I will suffer, atone, and purchase this hour of Heaven by any sacrifice: Do you love me?"
He looked at her, his whole soul in his eyes. "Must Itellyou so?" he asked mournfully. "What can it serve you to put your hand into the wound in my heart, and see how deep it is? You cannot cure it. Have you not felt, from the first moment, that some irresistible spell drew me to you, forcing me, the recluse, to come to you again and yet again? What was it that drove me from my couch early this morning and sent me hither to your closed house and deserted garden? What was it save love?"
"Ever since four o'clock I have wandered restlessly about with my eyes fixed on the shutters of your room, till the impetuous longing of my soul roused you and drew you from your warm bed into the chill morning air. Come, you are shivering, let me warm you, nestle in my arms and feel the glow of my heart."
He sat down on the bench under the arbor, and--he knew not how it happened--she clung to him like a child and he could not repulse her, hecouldnot! She stroked his long black locks with her little soft hand and rested her head against his cheek--she was the very embodiment of innocence, simplicity, girlish artlessness. And in low murmurs she poured out her whole heart to him as a child confides in its father. Without reserve, she told him all the bitter sorrow of her whole life--a life which had never known either love or happiness! Having lost her mother when a mere child, she had been educated by a cold-hearted governess and a pessimistic tutor. Her father, wholly absorbed by the whirl of fashionable life, had cared nothing for her, and when scarcely out of the school-room had compelled her to marry a rich old man with whom for eight years existence was one long torment. Then, in mortal fear lest her listener would not forgive her, yet faithful to the truth, she confessed also how her eager soul, yearning for love, had striven to find some compensation, rebelling against a law which recognized the utmost immorality as moral, tillsinitself seemed virtue compared to the wrong of such a bond. But as the forbidden draught did not quench her thirst, a presentiment came to her that she was longing for that spring of which Christ said: "But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst!" This had brought her here, and here had been opened the purifying, redeeming fount of life and love.
"Now you know all! My soul lies open before you! By the self denial with which I risked my highest blessing,yourself, and revealed my whole past life to you, you can judge whether I have been ennobled by your love." Slipping from his embrace, she sank on her knees before him: "Now judge the Penitent--I will accept from your hand whatever fate you may impose. But one thing I beseech you to do, whatever you may ask of me: rememberChrist."
Freyer raised his large dark eyes. "I do remember Him." Bending toward her with infinite gentleness, he lifted her in his strong arms: "Come, Magdalena! I cannot condemn you," he said, and the Penitent again rested in the embrace of compassion.
"There are drops of cold perspiration on your brow," said Madeleine after a long silence. "Are you suffering?"
"I suffer gladly. Do not heed it!" he said with effort.
Then a glance of loving inquiry searched his inmost soul. "Do you regret the kiss which you just denied me?" she asked, scarcely above her breath, but the whispered question made him wince as though a probe had entered some hidden wound. She felt it, and some irresistible impulse urged her to again raise her pouting lips. He saw their rosy curves close to his own, and gently covered them with his hand. "Be true! Let us be loyal to each other. Do not make my lot harder than it is already! You do not know what you are unchaining." Starting up, he clasped his hands upon his breast, eagerly drinking in long draughts of the invigorating morning air. The gloomy fire which had just glowed in his eyes changed again to a pure, calm light. "This is sobeautiful, do not disturb it," he said gently, kissing her on the forehead. "My child, my dove! Our love shall remain pure and sacred--shall it not?"
"Yes!" she murmured in reverent submission, for now he was once more the image of Christ, and she bent silently to kiss his hand. He did not resist, for he felt that it was a comfort to her. Then he disappeared, calm, lofty, like one who has stripped off the fetters of this world.
Madeleine von Wildenau was left alone. Pressing her forehead against the trunk of the tree, a rude but firm support, she had sunk back upon the bench, closing her eyes. Her heart was almost bursting with its seething tide of emotion. Tears coursed down her cheeks. God had given her so much, that she almost swooned under this wealth of happiness. Only a touch of pain could balance it, or it would be too great for mortal strength to bear. This pain was an unsatisfied yearning, a vague feeling that her destiny could only be fulfilled through this love, and that she was still so far from possessing it. God has ordained that the human heart can bear only a certain measure of happiness and, when this limit is passed, joy becomes pain because we are not to experience here on earth bliss which belongs to a higher stage of development. That is why the greatest joy brings tears, that is why, amid the utmost love, we believe that we have never loved enough, that is why, amid the excess of enjoyment, we are consumed with the desire for a rapture of which this is but a foretaste, that is why every pleasure teaches us to yearn for a new and greater one, so that we mayneverbe satisfied, but continually suffer.
There is but one power which, with strong hand, maintains the balance, teaches us to be sparing of joy, helps us endure pain, dams all the streams of desire and sends them back to toil and bear fruit within the soul: asceticism! It cuts with firm touch the luxuriant shoots from the tree of life, that its strength may concentrate within the marrow of the trunk and urge the growthupward. Asceticism! The bugbear of all the grown up children of this world. Wherever it appears human hearts are in a tumult as if death were at hand. Like flying ants bearing away their eggs to a place of safety, the disturbed consciences of worldlings anxiously strive to hide their secret desires and pleasures from the dreaded foe! But whoever dares to meet its eyes sees that it is not the bugbear which the apostles of reason and nature would fain represent it, no fleshless, bloodless shadow which strives to destroy the natural bond between the Creator and creation, but a being with a glowing heart, five wounds, and a brow bedewed with drops of sweat. Its office is stern and gloomy, its labor severe and thankless, for it has to struggle violently with rebellious souls and, save for the aid of the army of priests who have consecrated themselves to its service, it would succumb in the ceaseless struggle with materialism which is ever developing into higher consciousness! Yet whoever has once given himself to her service finds her a lofty, earnest, yet gracious goddess! She is the support of the feeble, the comforter of the unhappy and the solitary, the angel of the self-sacrificing. Whoever feels her hand upon a wounded, quivering heart, knows that she is thebenefactress, not the taskmistress of humanity.
Nor does she always appear as the gloomy mourner beside the corpse of murdered joys. Sometimes roses wreath the thorn-scarred brow, and she becomes the priestess of love. When the world and its self-created duties rudely sunders two hearts which God created for each other and leaves them to waste away in mortal anguish,sheis the compassionate one. With sanctifying power she raises the struggling souls above the dividing barrier of temporal things, teaches them to trample the earth under their feet and unites them with an eternal bond in the purer sphere ofintellectuallove. Thus she unites whatmoralitysevers.Moralityalone is harsh, not asceticism. Morality pitilessly prescribes her laws, unheeding the weakness of poor human hearts, asceticism helps them to submit to them. Moralitydemandsobedience, asceticismteachesit. Morality punishes, asceticism corrects. The former judges by appearances, the latter by the reality. Morality has only the reward of theworld, asceticism ofHeaven! Morality made Mary Magdalene an outcast, asceticism led her to the Lord and obtained His mercy for her.
And as the beautiful Magdalene of the present day sat with closed eyes, letting her thoughts be swept along upon the wildly foaming waves of her hot blood, she fancied that the bugbear once so dreaded because she had known it only under the guise of the fulfilment of base, loathsome duty was approaching. But this time the form appeared in its pure beauty, bent tenderly over her, a pallid shape of light, and gazed at her with the eyes of a friend! Low, mysterious words, in boding mournful tones, were murmured in her ears. As she listened, her tears flowed more gently, and with childlike humility she clasped the sublime vision and hid her face on its breast. Then she felt upon her brow a chill kiss, like a breath from the icy regions of eternal peace, and the apparition vanished. But as the last words of something heard in a dream often echo in the ears of the person awaking, the countess as she raised her closed lids, remembered nothing save the three words: "On the cross!" ...