It was morning! The lamp had almost burned out! Josepha and the countess were busied with the boy, whose sleep was disturbed by a short, dry cough. The mother had remained at the little castle all night and rested only a few hours. When with the little one there were times when her maternal affection was roused. Then she was seized with dread lest God should recall a precious gift because she had not known its value. It would be only just, she was aware of that--and because of its justice it seemed probable, and her heart strove to make amends in a few hours for the neglect of years. Perhaps thereby she might escape the punishment. But when she had gone, the little pale star in her horizon receded into the background before the motley phenomena of the world in which she lived, and only in isolated moments did she realize, by a dull pain, that feelings were slumbering within her soul which could not be developed--like a treasure which lies concealed in a spot whence it cannot be raised. It was akin to the parable of the servant who did not put out his talent at interest. This talent which God entrusted to men islove. A lofty noble sentiment which we suppress is the buried treasure which God will require of us, when the period for which He loaned it has expired. There were hours when the unhappy woman realized this. Then she accused everything--the world and herself! And the poor little child felt in his precocious soul the grief of the "beautiful lady," in whom he presciently loved his mother without knowing that it was she. Ordinary children, like animals, love best those who provide for their physical wants and therefore frequently cling more fondly to the nurse than to the mother. Not so this boy. He was almost ungrateful to Josepha, who nursed him the more faithfully, the more he was neglected by the countess.
Josepha was passionately attached to the boy. All the sorrowful love which she had kept in her desolate heart for her own dead son was transferred from the first hour to this delicate, motherless creature. It reminded her so much of her own poor child: the marked family likeness between him and Freyer--the mystery with which he must be surrounded. A mother who was ashamed of him, like Josepha at the time--it seemed as though her own dead child had returned to life. And besides she passed for his mother.
The boy was born while the countess was travelling in the East, and it was an easy matter to arrange with the authorities. The countess, while in Jerusalem, took the name of Josepha Freyer--Josepha that of Countess Wildenau, and the child was baptized under the name of Freyer. It was entered in the register as an illegitimate child, and Josepha bore the disgrace and returned to Germany as the boy's mother.
What was lacking to complete Josepha's illusion that the child was hers, and that she might love it as a mother? Nothing, save the return of her affection. And this was a source of bitter pain. She might give and do what she would, devote her days and nights to him, sacrifice her already failing health--nothing availed. When after weeks and months of absence the "beautiful lady," as he called her, came, his melancholy eyes brightened and he seemed to glow with new life as he stretched out his little arms to her with a look that appeared to say: "Had you not come soon, I should have died!" Josepha no longer existed for him, and even his father, whom he usually loved tenderly as his god-father--"Goth," as the people in that locality call it--was forgotten. This vexed Josepha beyond endurance. She performed a mother's duties in all their weariness, her heart cherished a mother's love with all its griefs and cares and, when that other woman came, who deserved nothing, did nothing, had neither a mother's heart nor a mother's rights--she took the child away and Josepha had naught save the trouble and the shame! The former enjoyed hurriedly, lightly, carelessly, the joys which alone could have repaid Josepha's sacrifices, the child's sweet smiles, tender caresses, and coaxing ways, for which she would have given her life. She ground her sharp white teeth and a secret jealousy, bordering on hatred, took root in her embittered mind. What could she esteem in this woman? For what should she be grateful to her? She was kind to her--because she needed her services--but what did she care for Josepha herself! "She might give me less, but do her duty to her husband and child--that would suit me better," she secretly murmured. "To have such a child and not be a mother to him, not give him the sunshine, the warmth of maternal love which he needs--and then come and take away from another what she would not earn for herself."
To have such a husband, the highest blessing Josepha knew on earth--a man to whom the whole world paid homage as if to God, a man so devout, so good, so modest, so faithful--and desert him, conceal him in a ruinous old castle that no one might note the disgrace of the noble lady who had married a poor wood-carver! And then to come and snatch the kisses from his lips as birds steal berries, when no one was looking, he was good enough for that! And he permitted it--the proud, stern man, whom the whole community feared and honored. It was enough to drive one mad.
And she, Josepha, must swallow her wrath year after year--and dared not say anything--for woe betide her if she complained of the countess! He would allow no attack upon her--though this state of affairs was killing him. She was forced to witness how he grieved for this woman, see him gradually lose flesh and strength, for the wicked creature bewitched every one, and charmed her husband and child till they were fairly dying of love for her, while she was carrying on her shameless flirtations with others.
Such were the terrible accusations raging in Josepha's passionate soul against the countess, charges which effaced the memory of all she owed her former benefactress.
"I should like to know what she would do without me" was the constant argument of her ungrateful hatred. "She may well be kind to me--if I chose, her wicked pranks would soon be over. She would deserve it--and what do I care for the pay? I can look after myself, I don't need the ill-gotten gains. But--then I should be obliged to leave the boy--he would have no one. No, no, Josepha, hold out as long as possible--and be silent for the child's sake."
Such were the conflicts seething in the breast of the silent dweller in the hunting-castle, such the gulfs yawning at the unsuspicious woman's feet.
It was the vengeance of insulted popular morality, to which she imagined herself so far superior. This insignificant impulse in the progress of the development of mankind, insignificant because it was the special attribute of the humble plain people, will always conquer in the strife against the emancipation of so-called "more highly organized" natures, for it is the destiny of individual giants always to succumb in the war against ordinary mortals. Here there is a great, eternal law of the universe, which from the beginning gathered its contingent from the humble, insignificant elements, and in so-called "plebian morality" is rooted--Christianity. Therefore, the former will conquer and always assert its right, even where the little Philistine army, which gathers around its standard, defeats a far nobler foe than itself, a foe for whom the gods themselves would mourn! Woe betide the highly gifted individuality which unites with Philistine elements--gives them rights over it, and believes it can still pursue its own way--in any given case it will find pity beforeGod, sooner than before the judgment seat of this literal service, and the spears and shafts of its yeomanry.
Something like one of these lance-thrusts pierced the countess from Josepha's eyes, as she bent over the waking child.
Josepha tried to take the boy, but he struggled violently and would not go to her. With sparkling, longing eyes he nestled in the arms of the "beautiful lady." The countess drew the frail little figure close to her heart. As she did so, she noticed the stern, resentful expression of Josepha's dry cracked lips and the hectic flush on the somewhat prominent cheek bones. There was something in the girl's manner which displeased her mistress. Had it been in her power, she would have dismissed this person, who "was constantly altering for the worse." But she was bound to her by indissoluble fetters, nay, was dependent upon her--and must fear her. She felt this whenever she came. Under such impressions, every visit to the castle had gradually become a penance, instead of a pleasure. Her husband, out of humor and full of reproaches, the child ill, the nurse sullen and gloomy. A spoiled child of the world, who had always had everything disagreeable removed from her path, could not fail at last to avoid a place where she could not breathe freely a single hour.
"Will you not get the child's breakfast, Josepha?" she said wearily, the dark circles around her eyes bearing traces of her night vigil.
"He must be bathed first!" said Josepha, in the tone which often wounded the countess--the tone by which nurses, to whose charge children are left too much, instruct young mothers that, "if they take no care of their little ones elsewhere, they have nothing to say in the nursery."
The countess, with aristocratic self-control, struggled to maintain her composure. Then she said quietly, though her voice sounded faint and hoarse: "The child seems weak, I think it will be better to give him something to eat before washing him."
"Yes," pleaded the little fellow, "I am thirsty." The words reminded the countess of his father, as he said on the cross: "I thirst." When these memories came, all the anguish of her once beautiful love--now perishing so miserably--overwhelmed her. She lifted the boy--he was light as a vapor, a vision of mist--from the bed into her lap, and wrapped his little bare feet in the folds of her morning dress. He pressed his little head, crowned with dark, curling locks, against her cheek. Such moments were sweet, but outweighed by too much bitterness.
"Bring him some milk--fresh milk!" Madeleine von Wildenau repeated in the slightly imperious tone which seems to consider opposition impossible.
"That will be entirely different from his usual custom," remarked Josepha, as if the countess' order had seriously interfered with the regular mode of life necessary to the child.
The mother perceived this, and a faint flush of shame and indignation suffused her face, but instantly vanished, as if grief had consumed the wave of blood which wrath had stirred.
"Is your mother--Josepha--kind to you?" she asked, when Josepha had left the room.
The boy nodded carelessly.
"She does not strike you, she is gentle?"
"No, she doesn't strike me," the little fellow answered. "She loves me."
"Do you love her, too?" the countess went on.
"Wh--y--Yes!" said the child, shrugging his shoulders. Then he looked tenderly into her face. "I love you better."
"That is not right, Josepha is your mother--you must love her best."
The boy shook his head thoughtfully. "But I would rather have you for my mamma."
"That cannot be--unfortunately--I must not."
The child gazed at her with an expression of sorrowful disappointment. =At last he found an expedient. "But in Heaven--when I go to Heaven--youwill be my mother there, won't you?"
The countess shuddered--an indescribable pain pierced her heart, yet she was happy, a blissful anguish! Tears streamed from her eyes and, clasping the child tenderly, she gently kissed him.
"Yes, my child! In Heaven--perhaps I may be your mother!"
Josepha now brought in the milk and wanted to give it to him, but the boy would not take it from her, he insisted that the countess must hold the bowl. She did so, but her hand trembled and Josepha was obliged to help her, or the whole contents would have been spilled. She averted her face.
"She cannot even give her child anything to drink," thought Josepha, as she moved about the room, putting it in order.
"Josepha, please leave me alone a little while," said the countess, almost beseechingly.
"Indeed?" Josepha's cheeks flushed scarlet, it seemed as if the bones grew still more prominent. "If I am in your Highness' way--I can go at once."
"Josepha!" said the countess, now suddenly turning toward her a face wet with tears. "Surely I might be allowed to spend fifteen minutes alone with my child without offending any one! I will forgive your words--on account of your natural jealousy--and I think you already regret them, do you not?"
"Yes," replied Josepha, somewhat reluctantly, but so conquered by the unhappy mother's words that she pressed a hard half reluctant kiss upon the countess' hand with her rough, parched lips. Then, with a passionate glance at the child, she gave place to the mother whose claim she would fain have disputed before God Himself, if she could.
But when the door had closed behind her, the countess could bear no more. Placing the child in his little bed, she flung herself sobbing beside it. "My child--my child, forgive me," she cried, forgetting all prudence "--pray for me to God."
Just at that moment the door opened and Freyer entered. All that was stirring the mother's heart instantly became clear to him, as he saw her thus broken down beside the boy's bed.
"Calm yourself--what will the child think!" he said, bending down and raising her.
"Don't cry, Mamma!" said the boy, stroking the soft hair on the grief-bowed head. He did not know why he now suddenly called her "mamma"--perhaps it was a prospect of the heaven where she would be his mother, and he said it in advance.
"Oh, Freyer, kill me--I am worthy of nothing better--cut short the battle of a wasted life! An animal which cannot recover is killed out of pity, why not a human being, who feels suffering doubly?"
"Magdalena--Countess--I do not know you in this mood."
"Nor do I know myself! What am I? What is a mother who is no mother--a wife who cannot declare herself a wife? A fish that cannot swim, a bird that cannot fly! We kill such poor crippled creatures out of sheer compassion. What kind of existence is mine? An egotist who nevertheless feels the pain of those whom she renders unhappy; an aristocrat who cannot exist outside of her own sphere and yet pines for the eternal verity of human nature; a coquette who trifles with hearts and yet woulddiefor a genuine feeling--these are my traits of character! Can there be anything more contradictory, more full of wretchedness?"
"Let us go out of doors, Countess, such conversation is not fit for the child to hear."
"Oh, he does not understand it."
"He understands more than you believe, you do not know what questions he often asks--ah, you deprive yourself of the noblest joys by being unable to watch the remarkable development of this child."
She nodded silently, absorbed in gazing at the boy.
"Come, Countess, the sun has risen--the cool morning air will do you good, I will ring for Josepha to take the boy," he said quietly, touching the bell.
The little fellow sat up in bed, his breathing was hurried and anxious, his large eyes were fixed imploringly on the countess: "Oh, mamma--dear mamma in Heaven--stay--don't go away."
"Ah, if only I could--my child--how gladly I would stay here always. But I will come back again presently, I will only walk in the sunshine for half-an-hour."
"Oh, I would like to go in the sunshine, too. Can't I go with you, and run about a little while?"
"Not to-day, not until your cough is cured, my poor little boy! But I'll promise to talk and think of nothing but you until I return! Meanwhile Josepha shall wash and dress you, I don't understand that--Josepha can do it better."
"Oh! yes, I'm good enough for that!" thought the girl, who heard the last words just as she entered.
"My beautiful mamma has been crying, because she is a bird and can't fly--" said the child to Josepha with sorrowful sympathy. "But you can't fly either--nor I till we are angels--then we can!" He spread out his little arms like wings as if he longed to soar upward and away, but an attack of coughing made him sink back upon his pillows.
The husband and wife looked at each other with the same sorrowful anxiety.
The countess bent over the little bed as if she would fain stifle with kisses the cough that racked the little chest.
"Mamma, it doesn't hurt--you must not cry," said the boy, consolingly. "There is a spider inside of my breast which tickles me--so I have to cough. But it will spin a big, big net of silver threads like those on the Christmas tree which will reach to Heaven, then I'll climb up on it!"
The countess could scarcely control her emotion. Freyer drew her hand through his arm and led her out into the dewy morning.
"You are so anxious about our secret and yet, ifIwere not conscientious enough to help you guard it, you would betray yourself every moment, you are imprudent with the child, it is not for my own interest, but yours that I warn you. Do not allow your newly awakened maternal love to destroy your self-control in the boy's presence. Do not let him call you 'Mamma.' Poor mother--indeed I understand how this wounds you--but--it must be one thing or the other. If you cannot--orwillnot be a mother to the child--youmustrenounce this name."
She bowed her head. "You are as cruel as ever, though you are right! How can I maintain my self-control, when I hear such words from the child? What a child he is! Whenever I come, I marvel at his intellectual progress! If only it is natural, if only it is not the omen of an early death!"
Freyer pitied her anxiety,
"It is merely because the child is reared in solitude, associating solely with two sorrowing people, Josepha and myself; it is natural that his young soul should develop into a graver and more thoughtful character than other children," he said, consolingly.
They had gone out upon a dilapidated balcony, overgrown with vines and bushes. It was a beautiful morning, but the surrounding woods and the mouldering autumn leaves were white with hoar frost. Freyer wrapped the shivering woman in a cloak which he had taken with him. Under the cold breath of the bright fall morning, and her husband's cheering words, she gradually grew calm and regained her composure.
"But something must be done with the child," she said earnestly. "Matters cannot go on so, he looks too ethereal.--I will send him to Italy with Josepha."
"Good Heavens, then I shall be entirely alone!" said Freyer, with difficulty suppressing his dismay.
"Yet it must be," replied the countess firmly.
"How shall I endure it? The child was my all, my good angel--my light in darkness! Often his little hands have cooled my brow when the flames of madness were circling around it. Often his eyes, his features have again revealed your image clearly when, during a long separation, it had become blurred and distorted. While gazing at the child, the dear, beautiful child, I felt that nothing could sever this sacred bond. The mother of this boy could not desert her husband--for the sake of this child she must love me! I said to myself, and learned to trust, to hope, once more. And now I am to part from him. Oh, God!--Thy judgment is severe. Thou didst send an angel to comfort Thy divine son on the Mount of Olives--Thou dost take him from me! Yet not my will, but Thine, be done!"
He bent his head sadly: "If it must be, take him."
"The child is ill, I have kept him shut up in these damp rooms too long, he needs sunshine and milder air. If he were obliged to spend another winter in this cold climate, it would be his death. But if it is so hard for you to be separated from the boy--go with him. I will hire a villa for you and Josepha somewhere on the Riviera. It will do you good, too, to leave this nook hidden among the woods--and I cannot shelter you here in Bavaria where every one knows you, without betraying our relation."
Freyer gazed at her with a mournful smile: "And you think--that I would go?" He shook his head. "No, I cannot make it so easy for you. We are still husband and wife, I am still yours, as you are mine. And though you so rarely come to me--if during the whole winter there was but a single hour when you needed a heart, you must find your husband's, I must be here!" He drew her gently to his breast. "No, my wife, it would have been a comfort, if I could have kept the child--but if you must take him from me, I will bear this, too, like everything which comes from your hand, be it life or death--nothing shall part me from you, not even love for my boy."
There was something indescribable in the expression with which he gazed at her as he uttered the simple words, and she clung to him overwhelmed by such unexampled fidelity, which thus sacrificed the only, the last blessing he possessed for asinglehour with her.
"My husband--my kind, noble husband! The most generous heart in all the world!" she cried, caressing him again and again as she gazed rapturously at the beautiful face, so full of dignity: "You shall not make the sacrifice for a single hour, your wife will come and reward your loyalty with a thousand-fold greater love. Often--often. Perhaps oftener than ever! For I feel that the present condition of affairs cannot last. I must be permitted to be wife and mother--I realized to-day at the bedside of my child that myguilt, too, was growing year by year. It is time for me to atone. When I return home I will seriously consider what can be done to make an arrangement with my relatives! I need not confess that I am already married--I could say that I might marry if they would pay me a sufficient sum, but I wouldnotdo so, if they refused me the means to live in a style which befitted my rank. Then they will probably prefer to make a sacrifice which would enable me to marry, thereby giving them the whole property, rather than to compel me, by their avarice, to remain a widow and keep the entire fortune. That would be a capital idea! Do you see how inventive love is?" she said with charming coquetry, expecting his joyful assent.
But he turned away with clouded brow--it seemed as though an icy wind had suddenly swept over the whole sunny landscape, transforming everything into a wintry aspect.
"Falsehood and deception everywhere--even in the most sacred things. When I hear you speak so, my heart shrinks! So noble a woman as you to stoop to falsehood and deceit, like one of the basest!"
The countess stood motionless, with downcast lids, shame and pride were both visible on her brow. Her heart, too, shrank, and an icy chill encompassed it.
"And what better proposal would you make?"
"None!" said Freyer in a low tone, "for the only one I could suggest you would not accept. It would be to atone for the wrong you have committed, frankly confess how everything happened, and then retire with your husband and child into solitude and live plainly, but honestly. The world would laugh at you, it is true, but the noble-hearted would honor you. I cannot imagine that any moral happiness is to be purchased by falsehood and deceit--there is but one way which leads to God--the way of truth--every other is delusive!"
The beautiful woman gazed at him in involuntary admiration. This was the inward majesty by which the lowly man had formerly so awed her; and deeply as he shamed and wounded her, she bowed to this grandeur. Yet she could no longer bear his gaze, she felt humbled before him, her pleasure in his companionship was destroyed. She stood before the man whom she believed so far beneath her, like a common criminal, convicted of the most petty falsehood, the basest treachery. She fairly loathed herself. Where was there anything to efface this brand? Where was the pride which could raise her above this disgrace? In her consciousness of rank? Woe betide her, what would her peers say if they knew her position? Would she not be cast out from every circle? What was there which would again restore her honor? She knew no dignity, no honor save those which the world bestows, and to save them, at any cost and by any means--she sank still lower in her own eyes and those of the poor, but honorable man who had more cause to be ashamed of her than she of him.
She must return home, she must again see her palace, her servants, her world, in order to believe that she was still herself, that the ground was still firm under her feet, for everything in and around her was wavering.
"Please order the horses to be harnessed!" she said, turning toward the half ruined door through which they had come out of the house.
It had indeed grown dull and cold. A pallid autumnal fog was shrouding the forest. It looked doubtful whether it was going to rain or snow.
"I have the open carriage--I should like to get home before it rains," she said, apologetically, without looking at him.
Freyer courteously opened the heavy ancient iron door. They walked silently along a dark, cold, narrow passage to the door of the boy's room.
"I will go and have the horses harnessed," said Freyer, and the countess entered the chamber.
She took an absent leave of the child. She did not notice how he trembled at the news that she was going home, she did not hear him plead: "Take me with you!" She comforted him as usual with the promise that she would soon come again, and beckoned Josepha out of the room. The boy gazed after her with the expression of a dying roe, and a few large tears rolled down his pale cheeks. The mother saw it, but she could not remain, her stay here was over for that day. Outside she informed Josepha of the plan of sending her and the child to Italy, but the latter shook her head.
"The child needs nothing but its mother," she said, pitilessly, "it longs only foryou, and if you send it still farther away, it will die."
The countess stood as if sentenced.
"When you are with him, he revives, and when you have gone, he droops like a flower without the sun!"
"Oh Heaven!" moaned the countess, pressing her clasped hands to her brow: "What is to be done!"
"If you could take the boy, it would be the best cure. The child need's a mother's love; that would be more beneficial to him than all the travelling in the world. You have no idea how he clings to his mother. It really seems as if you had bewitched him. All day long he wears himself out listening and watching for the roll of the carriage, and when evening comes and the hour that you usually drive up arrives, his little hands are burning with fever from expectation. And then he sees how his father longs for you. A child like him notices everything and, when his father is sad, he is sorrowful, too. 'She is not coming to-day!' he said a short time ago, stroking his father's cheek; he knew perfectly well what troubled him. A delicate little body like his is soon worn out by constant yearning. Every kid, every fawn, cries for its mother. Here in the woods I often hear the young deer, whose mother has been shot, wail and cry all night long, and must not a child who has sense and affection long for its mother? You sit in your beautiful rooms at home and don't hear how up here in this dreary house with us two melancholy people, the poor child asks for the mother who is his all."
"Josepha, you will kill me!"
The countess clung to the door-post for support, her brain fairly whirled.
"No, I shall not kill you, Countess, I only want to prevent your killing the child," said Josepha with flaming eyes. "Do you suppose that, if I could supply a mother's place to the boy, I would beg you for what is every child's right, and which every mother who has a mother's heart in her breast would give of her own accord? Certainly not. I wouldstealthe child's heart, which you are starving--ere I would give you one kind word, and you might beg in vain for your son's love, as I now beseech his mother's for him. But the poor little fellow knows very well who his mother is, and no matter what I do--he will not accept me! That is why I tell you just how matters are. Do what you choose with me--I no longer fear anything--if the child cannot be saved I am done with the world! You know me--and know that I set no value on life. You have made it no dearer to me than it was when we first met."
Just at that moment the door opened and a small white figure appeared. The boy had heard Josepha's passionate tone and came to his mother's assistance: "Mamma, my dear mamma in Heaven, what is she doing to you? She shan't hurt you. Wicked mamma Josepha, that's why I don't like you, you are always scolding the beautiful, kind lady."
He threw his little arm around his mother's neck, as if to protect her.
"Oh, you angel!" cried the countess, lifting him in her arms to press him to her heart.
The rattle of wheels was heard outside--the countess' four horses were coming. To keep the fiery animals waiting was impossible. Freyer hastily announced the carriage, the horses were very unruly that day. The countess gave the boy to Josepha's care. Freyer silently helped her into the equipage, everything passed like a flash of lightning for the horses were already starting--one gloomy glace was exchanged between the husband and wife--the farewell of strangers--and away dashed the light vehicle through the autumn mists. The mother fancied she heard her boy weeping as she drove off, and felt as if Josepha had convicted her of the murder of the child. But she would atone for it--some day--soon! It seemed as if a voice within was crying aloud: "My child, my child!" An icy moisture stood in drops upon her brow; was it the sweat of anxiety, or dew? She did not know, she could no longer think, she was sinking under all the anxieties which had pressed upon her that day. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the carriage as if fainting, while the horses rushed swiftly on with their light burden toward their goal.
The hours flew past. The equipage drove up to the Wildenau palace, but she was scarcely conscious of it. All sorts of plans and resolutions were whirling through her brain. She was assisted from the carriage and ascended the carpeted marble stairs. Two letters were lying on the table in her boudoir. The prince had been there and left one, a note, which contained only the words: "You will perceive that at the present time youdarenot refuse this position.
"The friend who means most kindly."
The other letter, in a large envelope, was an official document. Countess Wildenau had been appointed mistress of ceremonies!
A moment--and a turning point in a life!
The countess was "herself" again, as she called it. "Thank God!"
The Ammergau episode--with all its tragic consequences--belonged to the past. To-day, under the emotional impressions and external circumstances at that luckless castle, where everything conspired against her, she had thought seriously of breaking with her traditions and the necessities of life, faced the thought of poverty and shame so boldly that this appointment to the highest position at court saved her from the gulf of ruin. Stopped at the last moment, tottering, giddy, the startled woman sought to find a firm footing once more. She felt like a suicide, who is not really in earnest, and rejoices when some one prevents his design.
She stood holding the document in her hand. This was truth, reality, the necessity for self-destruction was imagination. The disgrace whose brand she already felt upon her brow could no longer approach her!
She set her foot upon the shaggy skin of a lion--the earth did not yet reel beneath her. She pressed her burning brow against a slender marble column--this, too, was still firm! She passed her slender fingers over the silk plush of the divan on which she reclined and rejoiced that it was still hers. Her eye, intoxicated with beauty, wandered over the hundreds of art-treasures, pictures and statues from every land with which she had adorned her rooms--nothing was lacking. Upon a pedestal stood the Apollo Belvedere, whose pure marble glowed warmly in a sunbeam shining through red curtains, as if real blood were circulating in the stone. The wondrous face smiled in divine repose upon the motley array, which the art and industry of centuries had garnered here.
The past and the present here closed their bewitching chain. Yonder stood a Venus de Milo, revealing to the charming owner the majesty of her own beauty. In a corner filled with flowers, a bathing nymph, by a modern master, timidly concealed herself. In a Gothic niche a dying Christ closed his eyes to the splendor of the world and the senses. It was a Christ after the manner of Gabriel Max, which opened and shut its eyes. Not far away the portrait of the countess, painted with the genius of Lenbach stood forth from the dark frame--the type of a drawing-room blossom. Clad in a soft white robe of Oriental stuff embroidered with gold, heavy enough to cling closely to the figure--flight enough to float away so far as to reveal all that fashion and propriety permitted to be seen of the beauty of a wonderful neck and arm. And, as Lenbach paints not only the outward form but the inward nature, a tinge of melancholy, of yearning and thoughtfulness rested upon the fair face, which made the beholder almost forget the beauty of the form in that of the soul, while gazing into the spiritual eyes which seemed to seek some other home than this prosaic earth. Just in the direction of her glance, Hermes, the messenger of death, bent his divine face from a group of palms and dried grasses. It seemed as if she beheld all these things for the first time--as if they had been newly given back to her that day after she had believed them lost. Her breath almost failed at the thought that she had been on the point of resigning it all--and for what? All these treasures of immortal beauty and art--for a weeping child and a surly man, who loved in her only the housewife, which any maid-servant can be, but understood what she really was, what really constituted her dignity and charm no more than he would comprehend Lenbach's picture, which reflected to her her own person transfigured and ennobled. She gazed at herself with proud satisfaction. Should such a woman sacrifice herself to a man who scarcely knew the meaning of beauty! Destroy herself for an illusion of the imagination? She rang the bell--she felt the necessity of ordering something, to be sure that she was still mistress of the house.
The lackey entered. "Your Highness?"
Thank Heaven! Her servants still obeyed her.
"Send over to the Barnheim Palace, and invite the Prince to dine with me at six. Then serve lunch."
"Very well. Has Your Highness any other orders?"
"The maid."
"Yes, Your Highness."
The man left the room with the noiseless, solemn step of a well-trained lackey.
"How can any one live without servants?" the countess asked herself, looking after him. "What should I have done, if I had dismissed mine?" She shuddered. Now that regal luxury again surrounded her she was a different person from this morning. No doubt she still felt what she had suffered that day, but only as we dimly, after waking from a fevered dream, realize the tortures we have endured.
Some one knocked, and the maid entered.
"I will take a bath before lunch. I feel very ill. Pour a bottle ofvinaigre de Bouilliinto the water. I will come directly."
The maid disappeared.
Everything still went on like clock-work. Nothing had changed--no one noticed what she hadalmostdone that day. The struggle was over. The royal order, which it would have been madness to oppose, had determined her course.
But her nerves were still quivering from the experiences of the day.
The child, if only she were not hampered by the child! That was the only thing which would not allow her to breathe freely--it was her own flesh and blood. That was the wound in her heart which could never be healed. She would always long for the boy--as he would for her. Yet, what did this avail, nothing could be changed, she must do what reason and necessity required. At least for the present; nay, there was even something beautiful in a sorrow borne with aristocratic dignity! By the depth of the wound, we proudly measure the depth of our own hearts.
She pleased herself with the idea of doing the honors as mistress of ceremonies to kings and emperors, while yearning in the depths of her soul for a poor orphaned child, the son of the proud Countess Wildenau--whose husband was a peasant. Only a nature of the elasticity of Madeleine von Wildenau's could sink so low and yet soar so high, without losing its equilibrium.
These were the oscillations which Ludwig Gross once said were necessary to such natures--though their radii passed through the lowest gulfs of human misery to the opposite heights. Coquetry is not only cruel to others, but to itself--in the physical tortures which it endures for the sake of an uncomfortable fashion, and the spiritual ones with which it pays for its triumphs.
This was the case with the countess. During her first unhappy marriage she had learned to control the most despairing moods and be "amusing" with an aching heart. What marvel that she deemed it a matter of course that she must subdue the gnawing grief of her maternal love. So she coquetted even with suffering and found pleasure in bearing it gracefully.
She sat down at her writing-desk, crowned with Canova's group of Cupid and Psyche, and wrote:
"My dear husband! In my haste I can only inform you that I shall be unable to come out immediately to arrange Josepha's journey. I have been appointed mistress of ceremonies to the queen and must obey the summons. Meanwhile, let Josepha prepare for the trip, I will send the directions for the journey and the money to-day. Give the boy my love, kiss him for me, and comfort him with the promise that I will visit him in the Riviera when I can. Amid the new scenes he will soon forget me and cease waiting and expecting. The Southern climate will benefit his health, and we shall have all the more pleasure in him afterward. He must remain there at least a year to regain his strength.
"I write hastily, for many business matters and ceremonies must be settled within the next few days. It is hard for me to accept this position, which binds me still more closely in the fetters I was on the eve of stripping off! But to make the king and queen my enemies at the very moment when I need powerful friends more than ever, would be defying fate! It will scarcely be possible for me now to come out as often as I promised you to-day. But, if you become too lonely, you can occasionally come in as my 'steward,' ostensibly to bring me reports--in this way we shall see each other and I will give orders that the steward shall be admitted to me at any time, and have a suitable office and apartments assigned to him 'as I shall now be unable to look after the estates so much myself.'
"If I cannot receive you at once, you will wait in your room until your wife, freed from the restraint and duties of the day, will fly to your arms.
"Is not this admirably arranged? Are you at last satisfied, you discontented man?
"You see that I am doing all that is possible! Only do not be angry with me because I also do what reason demands. I must secure to my child the solid foundations of a safe and well-ordered existence, since we must not, for the sake of sentiment, aimlessly shatter our own destiny. How would it benefit the sick child if I denounced myself and was compelled to give up the whole of my private fortune to compensate my first husband's relatives for what I have spent illegally since my second marriage? I could not even do anything more for my son's health, and should be forced to see him pine away in some mountain hamlet--perhaps Ammergau itself, whither I should wander with my household goods and you, like some vagrant's family. The boys there would stone him and call him in mockery, the 'little Count.' The snow-storms would lash him and completely destroy his delicate lungs.
"No, if I did not fear poverty formyself, I must do so foryou. How would you endure to have the Ammergau people--and where else could you find employment--point their fingers at you and say: 'Look, that is Freyer, who ran away with a countess! He did a fine thing'--and then laugh jeeringly.
"My Joseph! Keep your love for me, and let me have judgment for you, then all will be well. In love,
Your M."
She did not suspect, when she ended her letter, very well satisfied with her dialectics, that Freyer after reading it would throw the torn fragments on the floor.
This cold, frivolous letter--this change from the mood of yesterday--this act after all her promises! He had again been deceived and disappointed, again hoped and believed in vain. All, all on which he had relied was destroyed, the moral elevation of his beloved wife, which would at last restore to her husband and child their sacred rights--was a lie, and instead, by way of compensation, came the offer--of the position of a lover.
He was to seek his wife under the cover of the darkness, as a man seeks his inamorata--he, her husband, the father of her child! "No, Countess, the steward will not steal into your castle, in order when you have enjoyed all the pleasures of the day, to afford you the excitement of a stolen intrigue.
"Though the scorn and derision of the people of my native village would wound me sorely, as you believe--I would rather work with them as a day-laborer, than to play before your lackeys the part which you assign me." This was his only answer. He was well aware that it would elicit only a shrug of the shoulders, and a pitying smile, but he could not help it.
It was evening when the countess' letter reached him, and while, by the dim light of the hanging lamp, in mortal anguish he composed at the bedside of the feverish child this clumsy and unfortunately mis-spelled reply, the folding-doors of the brilliantly lighted dining-room in the Wildenau palace, were thrown open and the prince offered his arm to the countess.
She was her brilliant self again. She had taken a perfumed bath, answered the royal letter, made several sketches for new court costumes and sent them to Paris.
She painted with unusual skill, and the little water-color figures which she sent to her modistes, were real works of art, far superior to those in the fashion journals.
"Your Highness might earn your bread in this way"--said the maid flatteringly, and a strange thrill stirred the countess at these words. She had made herself a costume book, in which she had painted all the toilettes she had worn since her entrance into society, and often found amusement in turning the leaves; what memories the sight of the old clothes evoked! From the heavy silver wrought brocade train of old Count Wildenau's young bride, down to the airy little summer gown which she had worn nine years ago in Ammergau. From the stiff, regulation court costume down to the simple woolen morning gown in which she had that morning spent hours of torture on account of that Ammergau "delusion." But at the maid's words she shut the book as if startled and rose: "I will give you the dress I wore this morning, but on condition that I never see it."
"Your Highness is too kind, I thank you most humbly," said the delighted woman, kissing the sleeve of the countess' combing-mantle--she would not have ventured to kiss her hand.
The dinner toilette was quickly completed, and when the countess looked in the glass she seemed to herself more beautiful than ever. The melancholy expression around her eyes, and a slight trace of tears which she had shed, lent the pale tea-rose a tinge of color which was marvellously becoming.
The day was over, and when the prince came to dinner at six o'clock she received him with all her former charm.
"To whom do I owe this--Prince?" she said smiling, holding out the official letter.
"Why do you ask me?"
"Becauseyouonly can tell!"
"I?"
"Yes, you. Who else would have proposed me to their Majesties? Don't try to deceive me by that air of innocence. I don't trust it. You, and no one else would do me this friendly service, for everything good comes through you. You are not only a great and powerful man--you are also a good and noble one--my support, my Providence! I thank you."
She took both his hands in hers and offered him her forehead to kiss, with a glance of such sincere admiration and gratitude, that in his surprise and joy he almost missed the permitted goal and touched her lips instead. But fortunately, he recollected himself and almost timidly pressed the soft curls which quivered lightly like the delicate tendrils of flowers.
"I cannot resist this gratitude! Yes, my august cousin, the queen, did have the grace to consider my proposal as 'specially agreeable' to her. But, my dear Countess, you must have been passing through terrible experiences to lavish such undue gratitude upon the innocent instigator of such a trifle as this appointment as mistress of ceremonies, for whose acceptance we must be grateful to you. There is a touch of almost timidity in your manner, my poor Madeleine, as if you had lost the self-control which, with all your feminine grace, gave your bearing so firm a poise. You do yourself injustice. You must shake off this oppression. That is why I ventured to push the hands of the clock of life a little and secured this position, which will leave you no time for torturing yourself with fancies. That is what you need most. Unfortunately I cannot lift from those beautiful shoulders the burden you yourself have probably laid upon them; but I will aid you gradually, to strip it off.
"The world in which you are placed needs you--you must live for it and ought not to withdraw your powers, your intellect, your charm. You are created for a lofty position! I do not mean a subordinate one--that of a mistress of ceremonies. This is merely a temporary palliative--I mean that of a reigning princess, who has to provide for the physical and intellectual welfare of a whole nation. When in your present office you have become reconciled to the world and its conditions--perhaps the day will come when I shall be permitted to offer you that higher place!"
The countess stood with her hands resting on the table and her eyes bent on the floor. Her heart was throbbing violently--her breath was short and hurried.Onethought whirled through her brain. "You might have had all this and forfeited it forever!" The consciousness of her marred destiny overwhelmed her with all its power. What a contrast between the prince, the perfect product of culture, who took into account all the demands of her rank and character, and the narrow, limited child of nature, her husband, who found cause for reproach in everything which the trained man of the world regarded as a matter of course. Freyer tortured her and humbled her in her own eyes, while the prince tenderly cherished her. Freyer--like the embodiment of Christian asceticism--required from her everything she disliked while Prince Emil desired nothing save to see her beautiful, happy, and admired, and made it her duty to enjoy life as suited her education and tastes! She would fain have thrown herself exultingly into the arms of her preserver and said: "Take me and bear me up again on the waves of life ere I fall into the power of that gloomy God whose power is nurtured on the blood of the murdered joys of His followers."
Suddenly it seemed as if some one else was in the room gazing intently at her. She looked up--the eyes of the Christ in the Gothic niche were bent fixedly on her. "Are you looking at me again?" asked a voice in her terror-stricken soul. "Can you never die?"
It was even so; He could not die on the cross, He cannot die in her heart. Even though it was but a moment that He appeared to mortal eyes in the Passion Play, He will live for ever to all who experienced that moment.
Her uplifted arms fell as if paralyzed, and she faltered in broken sentences: "Not another word, Prince--in Heaven's name--do not lead me into temptation. Banish every thought of me--you do not know--oh! I was never worthy of you, have never recognized all your worth--and now when I do--now it is too late." She could say no more, tears were trembling on her lashes. She again glanced timidly at the painted Christ--He had now closed His eyes. His expression was more peaceful.
The prince gazed at her earnestly, but quietly. "Ah, there is a false standpoint which must be removed. It will cost something, I see. Calm yourself--you have nothing more to fear from me--I was awkward--it was not the proper moment, I ought to have known it. Do you remember our conversation nine years ago, on the way to the Passion Play? At that time a phantom stood between us. It has since assumed a tangible form, has it not? I saw this coming, but unfortunately could not avert it. But consider--it is and will always remain--a phantom! Such spectres can be fatal only to eccentric imaginative women like you who, in addition to imagination, also possess a strongly idealistic tendency which impresses an ethical meaning upon everything they feel. With a nature like yours things which, in and of themselves, are nothing except romantic episodes, assume the character of moral conflicts in which you always feel that you are the guilty ones because you were the superior and have taken a more serious view of certain relations than they deserved."
"Yes, yes! That is it. Oh, Prince--you understand me better than any one else!" exclaimed the countess, admiringly.
"Yes, and because I understand you better than any one else, I love you better than any one else--that is the inevitable consequence. Therefore it would be a pity, if I were obliged to yield to that phantom--for never were two human beings so formed for each other as we." He was silent, Madeleine had not heard the last words. In her swift variations of mood reacting with every changing impression, a different feeling had been evoked by the word "phantom" and the memories it awakened. Even the cleverest man cannot depend upon a woman. The phantom again stood between them--conjured up by himself.
As if by magic, the Kofel with its glittering cross rose before her, and opposite at her right hand the glimmering sunbeams stole up the cliff till, like shining fingers, they rested on a face whose like she had never seen--the eyes, dark yet sparkling, like the night when the star led the kings to the child in the manger! There he stood again, the One so long imagined, so long desired.
And her enraptured eyes said: "Throughout the whole world I have sought you alone." And his replied: "And I you!" And was this to be a lie--this to vanish? It seemed as if Heaven had opened its gates and suffered her to look in, and was all this to be delusion? The panorama of memory moved farther on, leading her past the dwellings of the high priest and apostles in Ammergau to the moonlit street where her ear, listening reverently, caught the words: This is where Christus lives! And she stood still with gasping breath, trembling with expectation of the approach of God.
Then the following day--the great day which brought the fulfilment of the mighty yearning when she beheld this face "from which the God so long sought smiled upon her!" The God whom she had come to seek, to confess! What! Could she deny, resign this God, in whose wounds she had laid her fingers.
Again she stood in timid reverence, with a glowing heart, while before her hovered the pierced, bleeding hand--Heaven and earth turned upon the question whether she dared venture to press her lips upon the stigma; she did venture, almost swooning from the flood of her feelings--and lo, in the kiss the quivering lips felt the throbbing of the warm awakening life in the hand of the stern "God," and a feeling of exultation stirred within her, "You belong to me! I will steal you from the whole human race." And now, scarcely nine years later--must the joy vanish, the God disappear, the faith die? What a miserable, variable creature is man!
"Dinner is served, and Baron St. Génois has called--shall I prepare another place?"
The countess started from her reverie--had she been asleep where she stood? Where was she?
The lackey was obliged to repeat the announcement and the question. A visitor now? She would rather die--yet Baron St. Génois was an intimate friend, he could come to dinner whenever he pleased--he was not to be sent away.
She nodded assent to the servant. Her emotions were repressed and scattered, her throbbing heart sank feebly back to its usual pulsation--pallid despair whispered: "Give up the struggle--you cannot be saved!"
A few minutes after the little party were celebrating in the brilliantly lighted dining-room in sparkling sack the "event of the day," the appointment of the new mistress of ceremonies.