The prince had left the room, and she heard him walk through the work-shop. Silence fell upon the house and the street. The tortured woman, utterly exhausted, sank upon her bed--her feet would support her no longer. But she could get no rest; an indescribable grief filled her heart. Everything had happened precisely as Freyer had predicted. Before the cock crowed, she had thrice betrayed him, betrayed him in the very hour when she had sworn fidelity. At the first step she was to take on the road of life with the man she loved, at the first glance from the basilisk eyes of conventional prejudice, she shrank back like a coward and could not make up her mind to acknowledge him. This was her purification, this the effect of a feeling which, as she believed, had power to conquer the world? Everything was false--she despaired of all things--of her future, of herself, of the power of Christianity, which she, like all new converts, expected would have the might to transform sinners into saints in a single moment. One thing alone remained unchanged,oneimage only was untouched by any tinge of baseness amid the turmoil of emotions seething in her heart--Freyer. He alone could save her--she must go to him. Springing from her bed she hurried into the work-shop. "Where is your son?" she asked Andreas Gross, who was just preparing to retire.
"I suppose he is in his room, Countess."
"Bring him to me at once."
"Certainly, Countess."
"Shall I undress Your Highness?" asked Josepha, who was still waiting for her orders.
Madeleine von Wildenau's eyes rested on the girl with a searching expression, as if she saw her now for the first time. Was she faithful--as faithful as a maid must be to make it possible to carry out the plan her father had suggested? Josepha gazed steadily into the countess' eyes, her frank face expressed nothing but innocent wonder at so long a scrutiny. "Yes--you are faithful," said the countess at last--"are you not?"
"Certainly, Countess," replied the girl, evidently surprised that she needed to give the assurance.
"You know what unhappiness means?"
"I think so!" said Josepha, with bitter emphasis.
"Then you would aid the unhappy so far as you were able?"
"It would depend upon who it was," answered Josepha, brusquely, but the rudeness pleased the countess; it was a proof of character, and character is a guarantee of trustworthiness. "If it were I, Josepha, could I depend upon you inanysituation?"
"Certainly!" the girl answered simply--"I live only for you--otherwise I would far rather be under the sod. What have I to live for except you?"
"I believe, Josepha, that I now know the reason Providence sent me to you!" murmured her mistress, lost in thought.
Ludwig Gross entered. "Did you wish to see me?"
Madeleine von Wildenau silently took his hand and drew him into her room.
"Oh, Ludwig, what things I have been compelled to hear--what sins I have committed--what suffering I have endured!" She laid her arm on the shoulder of the faithful friend, like a child pleading for aid. "What time is it, Ludwig?"
"I don't know," he replied. "I was asleep when my father called me. I wandered about looking for you and Freyer until about an hour ago. Then weariness overpowered me." He drew out his watch. "It is half past ten."
"Take me to Freyer, Ludwig. I must see him this very day. Oh, my friend! let me wash myself clean in your soul, for I feel as if the turbid surges of the world had soiled me with their mire."
Ludwig Gross passed his arm lightly about her shoulders as if to protect her from the unclean element. "Come," he said soothingly, "I will take you to Freyer. Or would you prefer to have me bring him here?"
"No, he would not come now. I must go to him, for I have done something for which I must atone--there can be no delay."
Ludwig hurriedly wrapped her in a warm shawl. "You will be ill from this continual excitement," he said anxiously, but without trying to dissuade her. "Take my arm, you are tottering."
They left the house before the eyes of the astonished Gross family. "She is a very singular woman," said Sephi, shaking her head. "She gives herself no rest night or day."
It was only five days since the evening that Madeleine von Wildenau had walked, as now, through the sleeping village, and how much she had experienced.
She had found the God whom she was seeking--she had gazed into his eyes, she had recognized divine, eternal love, and had perceived that she was not worthy of it. So she moved proudly, yet humbly on, leaning upon the arm of her friend, to the street where a thrill of reverence had stirred her whole being when Andreas Gross said, "That is the way to the dwelling of the Christ."
The house stood across the end of the street. This time no moonbeams lighted the way. The damp branches of the trees rustled mournfully above them in the darkness. Only a single window on the ground floor of Freyer's house was lighted, and the wavering rays marked the way for the pair. They reached it and looked in. Freyer was sitting on a wooden stool by the table, his head resting on his hand, absorbed in sorrowful thought. A book lay before him, which he had perhaps intended to read, but evidently had not done so, for he was gazing wearily into vacancy.
Madeleine von Wildenau stepped softly in through the unfastened door. Ludwig Gross waited for her outside. As she opened the door of the room Freyer looked up in astonishment "You?" he said, and his eyes rested full upon her with a questioning gaze--but he rose with dignity, instead of rushing to meet her, as he would formerly have greeted the woman he loved, had she suddenly appeared before him.
"Countess--what does this visit mean--at this hour?" he asked, mournfully, offering her a chair. "Did you come alone?"
"Ludwig brought me and is waiting outside for me--I have only a few words to say."
"But it will not do to leave our friend standing outside. You will allow me to call him in?"
"Do so, you will then have the satisfaction of having a witness of my humiliation," said the countess, quietly.
"Pardon me, I did not think of that interpretation!" murmured Freyer, seating himself.
"May I ask your Highness' commands?"
"Joseph--to whom are you speaking?"
"To the Countess Wildenau!"
She knelt beside him: "Joseph! Am Istillthe Countess Wildenau?"
"Your Highness, pray spare me!" he exclaimed, starting up. "All this can alter nothing. You remain--what you are, and I--what I am! This was deeply graven on my heart to-night, and nothing can efface it." He spoke with neither anger nor reproach--simply like a man who has lost what was dearest to him on earth.
"If that is true, I can certainly do nothing except go again!" she replied, turning toward the door. "But answer for it to God for having thrust me forth unheard."
"Nay, Countess, pray, speak!" said Freyer, kindly. She looked at him so beseechingly that his heart melted with unutterable pain. "Come--and--tell me what weighs upon your heart!" he added in a gentler tone.
"Not until you again call me your dove--or your child."
Tears filled his eyes, "My child--what have you done!"
"That is right--I can speak now! What have I done, Joseph? What you saw; and still worse. I not only treated you coldly and distantly in my father's presence, I afterwards disowned you three times--and I come to tell you so because you alone can and--I know--will forgive me."
Freyer had clasped his hands upon his knee and was gazing into vacancy. Madeleine continued: "You see, I have so lofty an opinion of you, and of your love, that I do not try to justify myself. I will only remind you of the words you yourself said to-day: 'May you never be forced to weep the tears which Peter shed when the cock crowed for the third time.' I will recall what must have induced Christ to forgive Peter: 'He knew the disciple's heart!' Joseph--do you not also know the heart of your Magdalena?"
A tremor ran through the strong man's frame and, unable to utter a word, he threw his arm around her and his head drooped on her breast.
"Joseph, you are ignorant of the world, and the bonds with which it fetters even the freest souls. Therefore you mustbelievein me! It will often happen that I shall be forced to do something incomprehensible to you. If you did not then have implicit faith in me, we could never live happily together. This very day I had resolved to break with society, strip off all its chains. But no matter how many false and culpable ideas it has--its principles, nevertheless, rest upon a foundation of morality. That is why it can impose its fetters upon the very persons who have nothing in common with itsimmoralside. Nay, were it merely animmoralpower it would be easy, in a moment of pious enthusiasm, to shake off its thrall--but when we are just on the eve of doing so, when we believe ourselves actually free, it throws around our feet the snare of adutyand we are prisoned anew. Such was my experience to-day with my father! I should have been compelled to sunder every tie, had I told him the truth! I was too weak to provoke the terrible catastrophe--and deferred it, by disowning you."
Freyer quivered with pain.
She stroked his clenched hand caressingly. "I know what this must be. I know how the proud man must rebel when the woman he loved didthat. But I also expect my angel to know what it cost me!"
She gently tried to loose his clenched fingers, which gradually yielded till the open hand lay soft and unresisting in her own. "Look at me," she continued in her sweet, melting tones: "look at my pallid face, my eyes reddened with weeping--and then answer whether I have suffered during these hours?"
"I do see it!" said Freyer, gently.
"Dear husband! I come to you with my great need, with my great love--and my great guilt. Will you thrust me from you?"
He could hold out no longer, but with loving generosity clasped the pleading woman to his heart.
"I knew it, you are the embodiment of goodness, gentleness--love! You will have patience with your weak, sinful wife--you will ennoble and sanctify her, and not despair if it is a long time ere the work is completed. You promise, do you not?" she murmured fervently amid her kisses, breathing into his inmost life the ardent pleading of her remorse.
And, with a solemn vow, he promised never to be angry with her again, never to desert her until sheherselfsent him away.
She had conquered--he trusted her once more. And now--she must profit by this childlike confidence.
"I thank you!" she said, after a long silence. "Now I shall have courage to ask you a serious question. But let us send home the friend who is waiting outside, you can take me back yourself."
"Certainly, my child," said Freyer, smiling, and went out to seek Ludwig. "He was satisfied," he said returning. "Now speak--and tell me everything that weighs upon your heart--no one can hear us save God." And he drew her into a loving embrace.
"Joseph," the countess began in an embarrassed tone. "The decisive hour has come sooner than I expected and I am compelled to ask, 'Will you be my husband--but only before God, not men.'"
Freyer drew back a step. "What do you mean?"
"Will you listen to me quietly, dearest?" she asked, gently.
"Speak, my child."
"Joseph! I promised to-day to become your wife--and I will keep the pledge, but our marriage must be a secret one."
"And why?"
"My husband's will disinherits me, as soon as I give up the name of Wildenau. If I marry you, I shall be dependent upon the generosity of my husband's cousins, who succeed me as his heirs, and they are not even obliged to give me an annuity--so I shall be little better than a beggar."
"Oh, is that all? What does it matter? Am I not able to support my wife--that is, if she can be satisfied with the modest livelihood a poor wood-carver like myself can offer?"
The countess, deeply touched, smiled. "I knew that you would say so. But, my angel, that would only do, if I had no other duties. But, you see, this is one of the snares with which the world draws back those who endeavor to escape its spell. I have a father--an unhappy man whom I can neither respect nor love--a type of the brilliant misery, the hollow shams, to which so many lives in our circle fall victims, a gambler, a spendthrift, but stillmy father! He asks pecuniary aid which I can render only if I remain the Countess Wildenau. Dare I be happy and let my father go to ruin?"
"No!" groaned Freyer, whose head sank like a felled tree on the arms which rested folded on the table.
"Then what is left to us--my beloved, saveseparationor a secret marriage? Surely we would not profane the miracle which God has wrought in us by any other course?"
"No--never!"
"Well--then I must say to you: 'choose!'"
"Oh, Heaven! this is terrible. I must not be allowed to assert my sacred rights before men--must live like a dishonored man under ban? Andwhereandwhencould we meet?"
"Joseph--I can offer you the position of steward of my estates, which will enable us to live together constantly and meet without the least restraint. I can recompense you a hundredfold, for what you resign here, my property shall be yours, as well as all that I am and have--you shall miss nothing save outward appearances, the triumph of appearing before the world as the husband of the Countess Wildenau."
"Oh! God, Thou art my witness that no such thought ever entered my heart. If you were poor and miserable, starving by the wayside, I would raise you and bear you proudly in my arms into my house. If you were blind and lame, ill and deserted, I would watch and cherish you day and night--nay, it would be my delight to work for you and earn, by my own industry, the bread you eat. When I brought it, I would offer it on my knees and kiss your dear hands for accepting it. But your servant, your hireling, I cannot be! Tell me yourself--could you still love me if I were?"
"Yes, for my love is eternal!"
"Do not deceive yourself; you have loved me as a poor, butfreecitizen of Ammergau--as your paid servant you would despise me."
"You shall not be my servant--it is merely necessary to find some pretext before the world which will render it possible for us to be constantly together without exciting suspicion--and the office of a steward is this pretext!"
"Twist and turn it as you will--I shall eat your bread, and be your subordinate. Oh, Heaven, I was so proud and am now so terribly humiliated--so suddenly hurled from the height to which you had raised me!"
"It will be no humiliation to accept what my love bestows and my superabundance shares with you."
"Itis, and I could be your husband only on the condition that I might continue to work and earn my own support."
"Oh! the envious arrogance of the poor, who grudge the rich the noblest privilege--that of doing good. Believe me, true pride would be to say to yourself that your noble nature a thousand times outweighed the petty sacrifice of worldly goods which I could make for you. He who scorns money can accept it from others because he knows that the outward gift is valueless, compared with the treasures of happiness love can offer. Or do you feel so poor in love that you could not pay me the trivial debt for the bit of bread I furnished? Then indeed--let me with my wealth languish in my dearth of happiness and boast that you sacrificed to your pride the most faithful of women--but do not say that you loved the woman!"
"My dove!"
"I am doing what I can!" she continued, mournfully, "I am offering you myself, my soul, my freedom, my future--and you are considering whether it will not degrade you to eat my bread and be apparently my servant, while in reality you are my master and my judge.--I have nothing more to say, you shall have your will, but decide quickly, for what is to be done must be done at once. My father himself (when he perceived that I really intended to marry) advised me to be wedded by our old pastor at Prankenberg. But I know my father, and am aware that he was only luring me into a trap. He will receive from me to-morrow a power of attorney to raise some money he needs--the day after he will invent some new device to keep me in his power. We must take the pastor at Prankenberg by surprise before he can prevent it. Now decide!"
"Omnipotent God!" exclaimed Freyer. "What shall I, what must I do? Oh! my love, I ought not to desert you--and even if I ought--Icouldnot, for I could no longer live without you! You know that I must take what you offer, and that my fate will be what you assign! But, dearest, how I shall endure to be your husband and yet regarded as your servant, I know not. If you could let this cup pass from me, it would be far better for us both."
"And did God spare the Saviour the cup? Was Christ too proud to take upon Him His cross and His ignominy, while you--cannot even bear the yoke your wife imposes, isforcedto impose?"
He bowed his head to the earth. Tears sparkled in his radiant eyes, he was once more the Christ. As his dark eyes rested upon her in the dim light diffused by the lamp, with all the anguish of the Crucified Redeemer, Madeleine von Wildenau again felt a thrill of awe in the presence of something supernatural--a creature belonging to some middle realm, half spirit, half mortal--and the perception that he could never belong wholly to the earth, never wholly toher. She could not explain this feeling, he was so kind, so self-sacrificing. Had she had any idea that such a man was destined to absorbus, not wehim, the mystery would have been solved. What she was doing was precisely the reverse. His existence must be sacrificed to hers--and she had a vague suspicion that this was contrary to the laws of his noble, privileged nature.
But he, unconscious of himself, in his modest simplicity, only knew that he must love the countess to the end--and deemed it only just that he should purchase the measureless happiness of calling this woman his by an equally boundless sacrifice. The appeal to Christ had suddenly made him believe that God proposed to give him the opportunity to continue in life the part of a martyr which he was no longer permitted to play on the stage. The terrible humiliation imposed by the woman whom he loved was to be the cross received in exchange for the one he had resigned.
"Very well, then, for the sake of Christ's humility!" he said, sadly, as if utterly crushed. "Give me whatever position you choose, but I fear you will discover too late that you have robbed yourself of thebestlove I have to bestow. Your nature is not one which can love a vassal. You will be like the children who tear off the butterfly's wings and then--throw aside the crawling worm with loathing. My wings were my moral freedom and my self-respect. At this moment I have lost them, for I am only a weak, love-sick man who must do whatever an irresistible woman requires. It is no free moral act, as is usual when a man exchanges an equal existence with his chosen wife.
"If you thinkthat, Joseph," said the countess, turning pale, "it will certainly be better--for me to leave you." She turned with dignity toward the door.
"Yes, go!" he cried in wild anguish--"go! Yet you know that you will take me with you, like the crown of thorns you dragged caught in the hem of your dress!" He threw himself on his knees at her feet. "What am I? Your slave. In Heaven's name, be my mistress and take me. I place my soul in your keeping--I trust it to your generosity--but woe betide us both, if you do not give me yours in return. I ask nothing save your soul--but that I want wholly."
The exultant woman clasped him in a passionate embrace: "Yes, give yourself a prisoner to me, and trust your fate to my hands. I will be a gentle mistress to you--you, beloved slave, you shall not bemoremine than I am yours--that is,whollyandforever."
The burgomaster went to the office every morning at six o'clock, for the work to be accomplished during the day was very great and required an early beginning. Freyer usually arrived about seven to share the task with him. On Fridays, however, he often commenced his labor before the energetic burgomaster. It was on that day that the rush upon the ticket office began, and every one's hands were filled.
But to-day Freyer seemed to be in no hurry. It was after seven--he ought to have arrived long before. He had been absent yesterday, too. The stranger must have taken complete possession of him. The burgomaster shook his head--Freyer's conduct since the countess' arrival, had not pleased him. He had never neglected his duties to the community. And at the very time when the Passion Play had attained unprecedented success. How could any one think of anything else--anythingpersonal, especially the man who took the part of the Christ! There were heaps of orders lying piled before him, how could they be disposed of, if Freyer did not help.
This countess was a beautiful woman--and probably a fascinating one. But to the burgomaster there was butonebeauty--that of the angel of his home. High above the turmoil of the crowd, in quiet, aristocratic seclusion, the lonely man sat at his desk in his bare, plain office. But the angel of Ammergau visited him here; he leaned his weary head upon His breast,Hiskiss rewarded his unselfish labor,Hisradiance illumined the unassuming citizen. No house was so poor and insignificant that at this season the angel of Ammergau did not take up His abode within and shed upon it His own sanctity and dignity. But to him who was the personification of Ammergau, the man who was obliged to care for everything--watch over everything--bear the responsibility of everything, to him the angel brought the reward which men cannot give--the proud consciousness of what he was to his home in these toilsome days. But it was quite time that Freyer should come! The burgomaster rang his bell. The bailiff entered.
"Kleinhofer, see where Herr Freyer is--or the drawing-master.Oneof them can surely be found."
"Yes, Herr Burgomaster." The man left the room.
The burgomaster leaned back in his chair to wait. His eyes rested a few seconds on one of Doré's pictures, Christ condemned by Pontius Pilate. He involuntarily compared the engraving with the grouping on the stage. "Ah, if we could do that! If living beings, with massive bones and clumsy joints, would be as pliable as canvas and brushes!" he thought, sorrowfully. "Wherever human beings are employed there must be defects and imperfections. Perfection, absolute beauty, exist only in the imagination! Yet ought not an inflexible stage manager, by following the lines of the work of art, to succeed in shaping even the rudest material into the artistic idea."
"Much--much remains to be done," said the singular stage manager in pitiless self-criticism, resting his head on his hand. "When one thinks of what the Meininger company accomplishes! But of course they work withartists--I with natural talent! Then we are restricted in alloting the parts by dilettante traditional models--and, worst of all, by antiquated statutes and prejudices." The vision of Josepha Freyer rose before him, he keenly felt the blow inflicted on the Passion Play when the beautiful girl, the very type of Mary Magdalene, was excluded. "The whole must suffer under such circumstances! The actors cannot be chosen according to talent and individuality; these things are a secondary consideration. The first is the person's standing in the community! A poor servant would be allowed to play only an inferior part, even if he possessed the greatest talent, and the principal ones are the monopoly of the influential citizens. From a contingent thus arbitrarily limited the manager is compelled to distribute the characters for the great work, which demands the highest powers. It is a gigantic labor, but it will be accomplished, nothing is needed save patience and an iron will! They will grow with their task. The increasing success of the Passion Play will teach them to understand how important it is that artistic interests should supersede all others. Then golden hours will first dawn on Ammergau. May God permit me to witness it!" he added. And he confidently hoped to do so; for there was no lack of talent, and with a few additions great results might be accomplished. This year the success of the Play was secured by Freyer, who made the audience forget all less skilful performers. With him the Passion Play of the present year would stand or fall. The burgomaster's eyes rested with a look of compassion upon the Christ of Doré and the Christ personated by Freyer, as it hovered before his memory--and Freyer bore the test. He had come from the hand of his Creator a living work of art, perfect in every detail. "Thank Heaven that we have him!" murmured the burgomaster, with a nod of satisfaction.
Some one knocked at the door. "At last," said the burgomaster: "Come in!"
It was not the person whom he expected, but Ludwig Gross!
He tottered forward as if his feet refused to obey his will. His grave face was waxen-yellow in its hue and deeply lined--his lips were tightly compressed--drops of perspiration glittered on his brow.
The burgomaster glanced at him in alarm: "What is it? What has happened?"
Ludwig Gross drew a letter from his pocket, "Be prepared for bad news."
"For Heaven's sake, cannot the performance take place? We have sold more than a thousand tickets."
"That would be the least difficulty. Be strong, Herr Burgomaster--I have a great misfortune to announce."
"Has it anything to do with Freyer?" exclaimed the magistrate, with sudden foreboding.
"Freyer has gone--with Countess Wildenau!"
"Run away?" cried the burgomaster, inexorably giving the act the right name.
"Yes, I have just found these lines on his table."
The burgomaster turned pale as if he had received a mortal wound. A peal of thunder seemed to echo in his ears--the thunder which had shattered the temple of Jerusalem, whose priest he was! The walls fell, the veil was rent and revealed the place of execution. Golgotha lay before him. He heard the rustling wings of the departing guardian angel of Ammergau. High above, in terrible solitude, towered the cross, but it was empty--he who should hang upon it--had vanished! Grey clouds gathered around the desolate scene.
But from the empty cross issued a light--not a halo, but like the livid, phosphorescent glimmer of rotten wood! It shone into a chasm where, from a jutting rock, towered a single tree, upon which hung, faithful to his task--Judas!
A peal of jeering laughter rose from the depths. "You have killed yourself in vain. Your victim has escaped. See the conscientious Judas, who hung himself, while the other is having a life of pleasure!"
Shame and disgrace! "The Christ has fled from the cross." Malicious voices echo far and wide, cynicism exults--baseness has conquered, the divine has become a laughing-stock for children--the Passion Play a travesty.
The phosphorescent wood of the cross glimmered before the burgomaster's eyes. Aye, it was rotten and mouldering--this cross--it must crumble--the corruption of the world had infected and undermined it, and this had happened in Oberammergau--underhismanagement.
The unfortunate man, through whose brain this chain of thoughts was whirling, sat like a stone statue before his friend, who stood waiting modestly, without disturbing his grief by a single word.
What the two men felt--each knew--was too great for utterance.
The burgomaster was mechanically holding Freyer's letter in his clenched hand. Now his cold, stiff fingers reminded him of it. He laid it on the table, his eyes resting dully on the large childish characters of the unformed hand: "Forgive me!" ran the brief contents. "I am no longer worthy to personate the Saviour! Not from lack of principle, but on account of it do I resign my part. Ere you read these lines, I shall be far away from here! God will not make His sacred cause depend upon any individual--He will supply my place to you! Forget me, and forgive the renegade whose heart will be faithful to you unto death!Freyer!"
Postscript:
"Sell my property--the house, the field, and patch of woods which was not burned and divide the proceeds among the poor of Ammergau. I will send you the legal authority from the nearest city.
"Once more, farewell to all!"
The burgomaster sat motionless, gazing at the sheet. He could have read it ten times over--yet he still stared at the lines.
Ludwig Gross saw with terror that his eyes were glassy, his features changed. The calmness imposed by the iron will had become the rigidity of death. The drawing-master shook him--now, in the altered position, the inert body lost its balance and fell against the back of the chair. His friend caught the tottering figure and supported the noble head. It was possible for him to reach the bell with his other hand and summon Kleinhofer. "The doctor--quick--tell him to come at once!" he shouted. The man hurried off in terror.
The news that the burgomaster had been stricken with apoplexy ran through the village like wild fire. Every one rushed to the office. The physician ran bare-headed across the street. The confusion was boundless.
Ludwig could scarcely control the tumult. Supporting the burgomaster with one arm, he pushed the throng back with the other. The doctor could scarcely force his way through the crowded room. He rubbed the temples and arteries of the senseless man. "I don't think it is apoplexy, only a severe congestion of the brain," he said, "but we cannot tell what the result may be. He has long been overworked and over-excited."
The remedies applied began to act, the burgomaster opened his eyes. But as if he were surrounded by invisible fiends which, like wild beasts, were only held in check by the firm gaze of the tamer and, ever ready to spring, were only watching for the moment when they might wrest from him the sacred treasure confided to his care--his dim eyes in a few seconds regained the steady flash of the watchful, imperious master. And the discipline which his unyielding will was wont to exert over his limbs instantly restored his erect bearing. No one save the physician and Ludwig knew what the effort cost him.
"Yes," said the doctor in a low tone to the drawing-master: "This is the consequence of his never granting himself any rest during these terrible exertions."
The burgomaster had gone to the window and obtained a little air. Then he turned to the by-standers. His voice still trembled slightly, but otherwise not the slightest weakness was perceptible, and nothing betrayed the least emotion.
"I am glad, my friends, that we are all assembled--otherwise I should have been compelled to summon you. Is the whole parish here? We must hold a consultation at once. Kleinhofer, count them."
The man obeyed.
"They are all here," he said.
At that moment the burgomaster's wife rushed in with Anastasia. They had been in the fields and had just learned the startling news of the illness of the husband and brother.
"Pray be calm!" he said, sternly. "There is nothing wrong with me--nothing worth mentioning."
The weeping women were surrounded by their friends but the burgomaster, with an imperious wave of the hand, motioned them to the back of the room. "If you wish to listen--and it is my desire that you should--keep quiet. We have not a moment to lose." He turned to the men of the parish.
"Dear friends and companions! I have tidings which I should never have expected a native of Ammergau would be compelled to relate of a fellow citizen. A great misfortune has befallen us. We no longer have a Christ! Freyer has suddenly gone away."
A cry of horror and indignation answered him. A medley of shouts and questions followed, mingled with fierce imprecations.
"Be calm, friends. Do not revile him. We do not know what has occurred. True, I cannot understand how such a thing was possible--but we must not judge where we know no particulars. At any rate we will respect ourselves by speaking no evil of one of our fellow citizens--for that he was, in spite of his act."
Ludwig secretly pressed his hand in token of gratitude.
"This misfortune is sent by God"--the burgomaster continued--"we will not judge the poor mortal who was merely His tool. Regard him as one dead, as he seems to regard himself. He has bequeathed his property to our poor--we will thank him for that, as is right--in other respects he is dead to us."
The burgomaster took the letter from the table. "Here is his last will for Ammergau, I will read it to you." The burgomaster calmly read the paper, but it seemed as if his voice, usually so firm, trembled.
When he had finished, deep silence reigned. Many were wiping their eyes, others gazed sullenly into vacancy--a solemn hush, like that which prevails at a funeral, had taken possession of the assembly. "We cannot tell," the burgomaster repeated: "Peace to his ashes--for the fire which will be so destructive to us is still blazing in him. We can but say, may God forgive him, and let these be the last words uttered concerning him."
"May God forgive him!" murmured the sorely stricken assemblage.
"Amen!" replied the burgomaster. "And now, my friends, let us consult what is to be done. We cannot deceive ourselves concerning our situation. It is critical, nay hopeless. The first thing we must try to save is our honor. When it becomes known that one of our number, and that one the Christ--has deserted his colors, or rather the cross, we shall be disgraced and our sacred cause must suffer.Ourhonor here is synonymous with the honor of God, and if we do not guard it for ourselves we must for His sake."
A murmur of assent answered him. He continued: "Therefore we must make every effort to keep the matter secret. We can say that Freyer had suddenly succumbed to the exertion imposed by his part, and to save his life had been obliged to seek a warmer climate! Those whoknowus men of Ammergau will not believe that any one would retire on account of his health, nay would prefer death rather than to interrupt the performances--but there are few who do know us."
"God knows that!" said the listeners, mournfully.
"Therefore I propose that we all promise to maintain the most absolute secrecy in regard to the real state of affairs and give the pretext just suggested to the public."
"Yes, yes--we will agree not to say anything else," the men readily assented. "But the women--they will chatter," said Andreas Gross.
"That is just what I fear. I can rely upon you men," replied the burgomaster, casting a stern glance at the girls and women. "The men are fully aware of the meaning and importance of our cause. It is bad enough that so many are not understood and supported by their wives! You--the women of Ammergau--alas that I must say it--you have done the place and the cause more harm by your gossip than you can answer for to the God who honors us with His holy mission. There is chattering and tattling where you think you can do so unpunished, and many things are whispered into the ears of the visitors which afterwards goes as false rumors through the world! You care nothing for the great cause, if you get an opportunity to gratify some bit of petty malice. Now you are weeping, are you not? Because we are ruined--the performances must cease! But are you sure that Joseph Freyer would have been capable of treating us in this way, had it not been for the flood of gossip you poured out on him and his cousin, Josepha? It embittered his mind against us and drove him into the stranger's arms. Has he not said a hundred times that, if it were not for personating the Christ, he would have left Ammergau long ago? Whereonebond is destroyed another tears all the more easily. Take it as a lesson--and keep silencethistime at least, if you can govern your feminine weakness so far! I shall make your husbands accountable for every word which escapes concerning this matter." Several of the women murmured and cast spiteful glances at the burgomaster.
"Towhomdoes this refer,whois said to have tattled?" asked a stout woman with a bold face.
The burgomaster frowned. "It refers to those who feel guilty--and does not concern those who do not!" he cried, sternly. "The good silent women among you know very well that I do not mean them--and the others can take heed."
A painful pause followed. The burgomaster's eyes rested threateningly upon the angry faces of the culprits. Those who felt that they were innocent gazed at him undisturbed.
"I will answer for my wife"--"Nothing shall go from my house!" protested one after another, and thus at least every effort would be made to save the honor of Ammergau, and conceal their disgrace from the world. But now came the question how to save the Play. A warm debate followed. The people, thus robbed of their hopes, wished to continue the performances at any cost, with any cast of characters. But here they encountered the resolute opposition of the burgomaster: "Either well--or not at all!" was his ultimatum. "We cannot deceive ourselves for a moment. At present, there is not one of us who can personate the Christ--except Thomas Rendner, and where, in that case, could we find a Pilate--who could replace Thomas Rendner?"
There was a violent discussion. "The sacristan, Nathanael, could play Pilate."
"Who then would take Nathanael?"
"Ah, if this one and that one were still in the village! But they had gone away to seek their bread, like so many who could no longer earn a support since the Partenkirch School of Carving had competed with the one in Ammergau. And many more would follow. If things went on in the same fashion, and matters were not improved by the play, in ten years more there might be none to fill the parts, necessity would gradually drive every one away."
"Yes, we are in a sore strait, my friends. The company melts away more and more--the danger to the Passion Play constantly increases. If we can find no help now, penury will deprive us of some of our best performers ere the next time. And yet, my friends, believe me--I say it with a heavy heart: if we now continue with a poor cast of characters--we shall be lost wholly and forever, for then we shall have destroyed the reputation of the Passion Play."
"Thomas Rendner will personate the Christ well--there is no danger on that score."
"And if he does--if Rendner takes the Christ, the sacristan Pilate, and some one else Nathanael--shall we not be obliged to study the whole piece again, and can that be done so rapidly? Can we commence our rehearsals afresh now? I ask you, is it possible?"
The people hung their heads in hopeless discouragement.
"Our sole resource would be to find a Christ among those who are not in the Play--and all who have talent are already employed. The others cannot be used, if we desire to present an artistic whole."
Despair seized upon the listeners--there was not a single one among them who had not invested his little all in furniture and beds for the strangers, and even incurred debts for the purpose, to say nothing of the universal poverty.
New proposals were made, all of which the hapless burgomaster was compelled to reject.
"The general welfare is at a stake, and the burgomaster thinks only of theartistic whole."
With these words the wrath of the assembly was finally all directed against him, and those who fanned it were mainly the strangers attracted by the Passion Play for purposes of speculation, who cared nothing how much it suffered in future, if only they made their money!
"I know the elements which are stirring up strife here," said the burgomaster, scanning the assembly with his stern eyes. "But they shall not succeed in separating us old citizens of Ammergau, who have held together through every calamity! Friends, let the spirit which our forefathers have preserved for centuries save us from discord--let us not deny the good old Ammergau nature in misfortune."
"And with the good old nature you can starve," muttered the speculators.
"If the burgomaster does not consider your interests of more importance than the fame of his success as stage manager he ought to go to Munich and get the position--there he could give as many model performances as he desired!"
"Yes," cried another, "he is sacrificing our interests to his own vanity."
During this accusation the burgomaster remained standing with his figure drawn up to its full height. Only the dark swollen vein on his weary brow betrayed the indignation seething in his soul.
"I disdain to make any reply to such a charge. I know the hearts of my fellow citizens too well to fear that any one of them believes it."
"No, certainly not!" exclaimed the wiser ones. But the majority were silent in their wrathful despair.
"I know that many of you misjudge me, and I bear you no resentment for it. I admit that in such a period of storm and stress it is difficult to maintain an unprejudiced judgment.
"I know also that I myself have often bewildered your judgment, for it is impossible to create such a work without giving offense here and there. I know that many who feel wounded and slighted secretly resent it, and I do not blame them! Only I beg you to visit the rancor on mepersonally--not extend it to the cause and injure that out of opposition to me. In important moments like these, I beg you to let all private grudges drop and gather around me--in this one decisive hour think only of the whole community, and not of all the wrongs the burgomaster may have done you individually.
"If I had only the interest of Ammergau to guard, all would be well! But I have not onlyyourwelfare to protect, but the dignity of a cause for which I am responsible toGod--so long as it remains in my hands. Human nature is weak and subject to external impressions. The religious conceptions of thousands depend upon the greater or less powerful illusion produced by the Passion Play as a moral symbol. This is a heavy responsibility in a time when negation and materialism are constantly undermining faith and dragging everything sacred in the dust. In such a period, the utmost perfection of detail is necessary, that theformat least may command respect, where theessenceis despised. I will try to make this dear to you by an example. The cynic who sneers at our worship of Mary and, with satirical satisfaction, paints the Virgin as the corpulent mother of four or five boys, will laugh at an Altötting Virgin but grow silent and earnest before a Sistine Madonna! For here the divinity in which he does not wish to believe confronts him in the work of art and compels his reverence. It is precisely in a period of materialism like the present that religious representation has its most grateful task--for the deeper man sinks into sensualism, the more accessible he is to sensual impressions, and the more easily religion can influence him through visible forms, repelling or attracting according to the defective or artistic treatment of the material. The religious-sensuous impetus is the only one which can influence times like these, that is why the Passion Play is more important now than ever!
"God has bestowed upon me the modest talent of organization and a little artistic culture, that I may watch over it, and see that those who come to us trustfully to seek their God, do not go away with a secret disappointment--and that those who come tolaughmay be quiet--and ashamed.
"This is the great task allotted to me, which I have hitherto executed without regard for personal irritability, and the injury of petty individual interests, and hope to accomplish even under stress of the most dire necessity.
"If you wish to oppose it, you should have given the office I occupy to some one who thinks the task less lofty, and who is complaisant enough to sacrifice the noble to the petty. But see where you will end with the complaisant man, who listens to every one. See how soon anarchy will enter among you, for where individual guidance is lacking, and every one can assert his will, the seed of discord shoots up, overgrowing everything. Now you are all againstme, but then you will be againstone another, and while you are quarreling and disputing, time will pass unused, and at last the first antiquated model will be seized because it can be most easily and quickly executed. But the modern world will turn away with a derisive laugh, saying: 'We can't look at these peasant farces any more.'
"Then answer for robbing thousands of a beautiful illusion and letting them return home poorer in faith and reverence than they came--answer for it to God, whose sublime task you have degraded by an inferior performance, and lastly to yourselves for forgetting the future in the present gain, and to profit by the Passion Play a few more times now, ruin it for future decades. You do not believe it because, in this secluded village, you cannot know what the taste of our times demands. But I do, for I have lived in the outside world, and I tell you that whoever sees these incomplete performances will certainly not return, and will make us a reputation stamping us as bunglers forever!"
The burgomaster pressed his hand to his head; a keen pang was piercing his brain--and his heart also.
"I have nothing more to add," he concluded, faintly. "But if you know any one whom you believe could care for Ammergau better than I--I am ready at any moment to place my office in his hands."
Then, with one accord, every heart swelled with the old lofty feeling for the sacred cause of their ancestors and grateful appreciation of the man who had again roused it in them. No, he did not deserve that they should doubt him--he had again taught them to think like true natives of Ammergau, aye, they felt proudly that he was of the true stock--it was Ammergau blood that flowed in his veins and streamed from the wounds which had been inflicted on his heart that day! They saw that they had wronged him and they gathered with their old love and loyalty around the sorely-beset man, ready to atone with their lives, for these hot-blooded, easily influenced artist-natures were nevertheless true to the core.
The malcontents were forced to keep silence, no one listened to them. All flocked around the burgomaster. "We will stand by you. Burgomaster--only tell us what we are to do--and how we can help ourselves. We rely wholly upon you."
"Alas! my friends, I must reward your restored confidence with unpalatable counsel. Let us bear the misfortune like men! It is better to fell trees in the forest, go out as day laborers--nay,starve--rather than be faithless to the spirit of our ancestors! Am I not right?" A storm of enthusiasm answered him.
It was resolved to announce the close of the Passion Play for this decade. The document was signed by all the members of the community.
"So it is ended for this year! For many of us perhaps for this life!" said the burgomaster. "I thank all who have taken part in the Play up to this time. I will report the receipts and expenditures within a few days. In consideration of the painful cause, we will dispense with any formal close."
A very different mood from the former one now took possession of the assembly. All anxiety concerning material things vanished in the presence of a deeper sorrow. It was the great, mysterious grief of parting, which seized all who had to do anything connected with the "Passion." It seemed as if the roots of their hearts had become completely interwoven with it and must draw blood in being torn away, as if a part of their lives went with it. The old men felt the pang most keenly. "For the last time for this life!" are words before whose dark portal we stand hesitating, be it where it may--but if this "for the last time" concerns the highest and dearest thing we possess on earth, they contain a fathomless gulf of sadness! Old Barabbas, the man of ninety, was the first, to express it--the others joined in and the greybeards who had been young together and devoted their whole lives to the cause which to them was the highest in the world, sank into one another's arms, like a body of men condemned to death.
Then one chanted the closing line of the choragus: "Till in the world beyond we meet"--and all joined as with asinglevoice, the unutterable anguish of resigning that close communion with Deity, in which every one of them lived during this period, created its own ceremonial of farewell and found apt expression in those last words of the Passion Play.
Then they shook hands with one another, exchanging a life-long farewell. They knew that they should meet again the next day--in the same garments--but no longer what they now were, Roman governor and high-priests, apostles and saints. They were excluded from the companionship of the Lord, for their Christ had not risen as usual--he had fled and faithlessly deserted his flock, ere their task could be fulfilled. It was doubly hard!
Old Judas, the venerable Lechner, was so much moved that they were obliged to support him down the stairs: Judas weeping over Christ! The loyal man had suffered unutterably from the necessity of playing the traitor's part--the treachery now practised toward the sacred cause by the personator of Christ himself--fairly broke his heart! "That I must live to witness this!" he murmured, wringing his hands as he descended the steps. But Thomas Rendner shook his handsome head and mournfully repeated the momentous words of Pilate: "What is truth?" With tears in his eyes, he held out his sinewy right hand consolingly to Caiaphas.
"Don't take it so much to heart, Burgomaster; God is still with us!" Then he cast a sorrowful glance toward the corner of the room. "Poor Mary! I always thought so!" he muttered compassionately, under his breath, and followed the others.
The burgomaster and Ludwig were left behind alone and followed the direction of Rendner's glance. There--it almost broke their hearts--there sat the burgomaster's sister--the "Mary" in the corner, with her hands clasped in her lap, the very attitude in which she waited for the body of her Crucified Son.
"Poor sister," said the burgomaster, deeply moved. "For what are you waiting? They will never bring him to you again."
"He will come back, the poor martyr!" she replied, her large eyes gazing with prophetic earnestness into vacancy. "He will come, weary and wounded--perhaps betrayed by all."
"Then I will have nothing to do with him," said the burgomaster in a low, firm tone.
"You can do as you please, you are a man. But I, who have so long personated his mother--I will wait and receive and comfort him, as a mother cheers her erring child."
"Oh, Anastasia!" A cry of pain escaped Ludwig's lips, and, overwhelmed by emotion, he turned away.
The burgomaster, with tender sympathy, laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Ah, sister, Freyer is not worthy that you should love him so!"
"How do I love him?" replied the girl. "I love him as Eternal Compassion loves the poor and suffering. Heispoor and suffering. Oh! do not think evil of him--he does not deserve it. He is good and noble! Believe me, a mother must know her child better," she added, with the smile that reveals a breaking heart.
She looked the drawing-master kindly in the face: "Ludwig, we both understand him, do we not?Webelieve in him, though all condemn."
Ludwig could not speak--he merely nodded silently and pressed Anastasia's hand, as if in recognition of the pledge. He was undergoing a superhuman conflict, but, with the strength peculiar to him, succeeded in repressing any display of emotion.
The burgomaster stood mutely watching the scene, and neither of the three could decide which suffered most.
He gazed in speechless grief at the clasped hands of his sister and his friend. How often he had wished for this moment, and now--? Whatpartedalone united them, and what united, divided.
"Aye, Freyer has brought much misery upon us!" he said, with sullen resentment. "I only hope that he will never set foot again upon the soil of his forefathers!"
"Oh, Brother, how can you speak so--you do not mean it. I know that his heart will draw him back here; he will seek his home again, and he shall find it. You will not thrust him from you when he returns from foreign lands sorrowing and repentant. God knows how earnestly I wish him happiness, but I do not believe that he will possess it. And as he will be loyal to us in his inmost soul, we will be true to him and prepare a resting place when the world has nailed his heart upon the cross. Shall we not, Ludwig?"
"Yes, by Heaven, we will!" faltered Ludwig, and his tears fell on the beautiful head of the girl, who still sat motionless, as if she must wait here for the lost one.
"Woman, behold thy son--son, behold thy mother!" stirred the air like a breath.