All through the morning the street where Ludwig's house stood was crowded with people. Toward noon a whisper ran through the throng: "He is coming!" and Freyer appeared. Many pressed forward curiously but shrank back again as Freyer drew near. "Good Heavens, how he looks!"
Freyer tottered past them, raising his hat in greeting, but spite of his modest bearing and simple garb he seemed to have become so aristocratic a gentleman, that no one ventured to accost him. Something emanating from him inspired reverence, as if--in the presence of the dead. He was dead--at least to the world. The people felt this and the gossip suddenly ceased--the parties formed in an envious or malicious spirit were reconciled.
"He won't live long!" This was the magic spell which soothed all contention. If he had any sin on his conscience, he would soon atone for it, if he had more money than the rest, he must soon "leave it behind," and if he desired to take a part he could not keep it long! Only the children who meanwhile had grown into tall lads and lasses ran trustfully to meet him, holding out their hands with the grace and charm peculiar to the Ammergau children. And because the grown people followed him, the little ones did the same. He stopped and talked with them, recognizing and calling by name each of the older ones, while their bright eyes gazed searchingly into his, as sunbeams pierce dark caverns. "Have you been ill, Herr Freyer?"
"No, my dear children--or yes, as people may regard it, but I shall get well with you!" And, clasping half a dozen of the little hands in his, he walked on with them.
"Will you play the divine friend of children with us again?" asked one of the larger girls beseechingly.
"When Christmas comes, we will all play it again!" A strange smile transfigured Freyer's features, and tears filled his eyes.
"Will you stay with us now?" they asked.
"Yes!" It was only a single word, but the children felt that it was a vow, and the little band pressed closer and closer around him: "Yes, now you must never go away!"
Freyer lifted a little boy in his arms and hid his face on the child's breast: "No,never,nevermore!"
A solemn silence reigned for a moment. The grief of a pure heart is sacred, and a child's soul feels the sacredness. The little group passed quietly through the village, and the children formed a protecting guard around him, so that the grown people could not hurt him with curious questions. The children showed their parents that peace must dwell between him and them--for the Ammergau people knew that in their children dwelt the true spirit which they had lost to a greater or less degree in the struggle for existence. Thechildrenhad adopted him--now he was again at home in Ammergau; no parish meeting was needed to give him the rights of citizenship.
The little procession reached the town-hall. Freyer put the child he was carrying on the ground--it did not want to leave him. The grown people feared him, but the children considered him their own property and were reluctant to give him up. Not until after long persuasion would they let him enter. As he ascended the familiar stairs his heart throbbed so violently that he was obliged to lean against the wall. A long breath, a few steps more--then a walk through the empty council room to the office, a low knock, the well-known "come in!"--and he stood before the burgomaster. It is not the custom among the people of Ammergau to rise when receiving each other. "Good-morning!" said the burgomaster, keeping his seat as if to finish some pressing task--but really because he was struggling for composure: "Directly!"
Freyer remained standing at the door.
The burgomaster went on writing. A furtive glance surveyed the figure in his coat and shoes--but he did not raise his eyes to Freyer's face, the latter would have seen it. At last he gained sufficient composure to speak, and now feigned to be aware for the first time of the new-comer's identity. "Ah, Herr Freyer!" he said, and the eyes of the two men met. It was a sad sight to both.
The burgomaster, once so strong and stately, aged, shrunken, prematurely worn. Freyer an image of suffering which was almost startling.
"Herr Burgomaster, I do not know--whether I may still venture--"
"Pray take a chair, Herr Freyer," said the burgomaster.
Freyer did so, and sat down at some distance.
"You do not seem to have prospered very well," said the other, less to learn the truth than to commence conversation.
"You doubtless see that."
"Yes----! I could have wished that matters had resulted differently!"
Both were silent, overpowered by emotion. At the end of a few minutes the burgomaster continued in a low tone: "I meant so well by you--it is a pity--!"
"Yes, you havemuchto forgive me, no one knows that better than I--but you will not reject a penitent man, if he wishes to make amends for the wrong."
The burgomaster rubbed his forehead: "I do not reject you, but--I have already told the drawing-master, I only regret that I can do nothing for you. You are not ill--I cannot support you from the fund for the sick and it will be difficult to accomplish anything with the parish."
"Oh, Herr Burgomaster, I never expected to be supported. Only, when I arrived yesterday I was so weary that I could explain nothing to Ludwig, otherwise he would surely have spared you and me the step which his great sympathy induced him to take. The clothing with which you have helped me out of embarrassment for the moment, I will gratefully accept asloaned, but I hope to repay you later."
"Pray let us say no more about it!" answered the burgomaster, waving his hand.
"Yes! For it can only shame me if you generously bestow material aid--and yet cherish resentment against me in your heart for the wrong I have done. What my sick soul most needs is reconciliation with you and my home. And for that Icanask."
"I am not implacable, Herr Freyer! You have done me no personal wrong--you have merely injured the cause which lies nearest to my heart of anything in the world. This is a grief, which must be fought down, but for which I cannot hold you responsible, though it cost me health and life. I feel no personal rancor for what had no personal intention. If a man flings a stone at the image of a saint and unintentionally strikes me on the temple, I shall not make him responsible for that--but for having aimed at something which was sacred to others. Topunishhim for it I shall leave to a higher judge."
"Permit me to remain silent. You must regard the matter thus from your standpoint, and I can show you no better one. The right of defense is denied me. Only I would fain defend myself against the reproach that what is sacred to others is not to me. Precisely because it is sacred to me--perhaps more sacred than to others, I have sinned against it."
"That is a contradiction which I do not understand!"
"And I cannot explain!"
"Well, it is not my business to pry into your secrets and judge your motives. I am not your confessor. I told you that I left God to judge such things. My duty as burgomaster requires me to aid any member of the parish to the best of my ability in matters pertaining to earning a livelihood. If you will give me your confidence, I am ready to aid you with advice and action. I don't know what you wish to do. You gave your little property to our poor--do you wish to take it back?"
"Oh, never, Herr Burgomaster, I never take back what I give," replied Freyer.
"But you will then find it difficult, more difficult than others, to support yourself," the burgomaster continued. "You went to the carving-school too late to earn your bread by wood-carving. You know no trade--you are too well educated to pursue more menial occupations, such as those of a day-laborer, street-sweeper, etc.--and you would be too proud to live at the expense of the parish, even if we could find a way of securing a maintenance for you. It is really very difficult, one does not know what to say. Perhaps a messenger's place might be had--the carrier from Linderhof has been ill a long time."
"Have no anxiety on that score, Herr Burgomaster. During my absence, I devoted my leisure time mainly to drawing and modelling. I also read a great deal, especially scientific works, so that I believe I could support myself by carving, if I keep my health. If that fails, I'll turn wood-cutter. The forest will be best for me. That gives me no anxiety."
The burgomaster again rubbed his forehead. "Perhaps if the indignation roused by your desertion has subsided, it may be possible to give you employment at the Passion Theatre as superintendent, assistant, or in the wardrobe room."
Freyer rose, a burning blush crimsoned his face, instantly followed by a deathlike pallor. "You are not in earnest, Herr Burgomaster--I--render menial service in the Passion--I? Then woe betide the home which turns her sons from her threshold with mockery and disgrace, when they seek her with the yearning and repentance of mature manhood."
Freyer covered his face with his hands, grief robbed him of speech.
The burgomaster gave him a moment's time to calm himself. "Yes, Herr Freyer, but tell me, do you expect, after all that has occurred, to be made the Christus?"
"What else should I expect? For what other purpose shouldIcome here than to aid the community in need, for my dead cousin Josepha received a letter from one of our relatives here, stating that you had no Christus and did not know what to do. It seemed to me like a summons from Heaven and I knew at that moment where my place was allotted. Life had no farther value for me--one thought only sustained me, to be something to myhome, to repair the injury I had done her, atone for the sin I had committed--and this time I should have accomplished it. I walked night and day, with one desire in my heart, one goal before my eyes, and now--to be rejected thus--oh, it is too much, it is the last blow!"
"Herr Freyer--I am extremely sorry, and can understand how it must wound you, yet you must see yourself that we cannot instantly give a man who voluntarily, not to saywilfully, deserted us and remained absent so long that he has become a stranger, the most important part in the Play when want forces him to again seek a livelihood in Ammergau."
"I am become a stranger because I remained absent ten years? May God forgive you, Herr Burgomaster. We must both render an account to Him of our fulfilment of His sacred mission--He will then decide which of us treasured His image more deeply in his heart--you here--or I in the world outside."
"That is very beautiful and sounds very noble--but, Herr Freyer, youprovenothing by your appeal to God, He is patient and the day which must bring this decision is, I hope, still far distant from you and myself!"
"It is perhaps nearer to me than you suppose, Herr Burgomaster!"
"Such phrases touch women, but not men, Herr Freyer!"
Freyer straightened himself like a bent bush which suddenly shakes off the snow that burdened it. "I have not desired to touch any one, my conscience is clear, and I do not need to appeal to your compassion. A person may be ill and feeble enough to long for sympathy, without intending to profit by it. I thought that I might let my heart speak, that I should be understood here. I was mistaken. It is notIwho have become estranged from my home--home has grown alienated from me and you, as the ruling power in the community, who might mediate between us, sever the last bond which united me to it. Answer for it one day to Ammergau, if you expel those who would shed their heart's blood for you, and to whom the cause of the Passion Play is still an earnest one."
"Oh, Herr Freyer, it would be sad indeed if we were compelled to seek earnest supporters of our cause in the ranks of the deserters--who abandoned us from selfish motives."
"Herr Burgomaster!--" Freyer reflected a moment--it was difficult to fathom what was passing in his mind--it seemed as if he were gathering strength from the inmost depths of his heart to answer this accusation. "It is a delicate matter to speak in allegories, where deeds are concerned--you began it out of courtesy to me--and I will continue from the same motive, though figurative language is not to my taste--we strike a mark in life without having aimed! But to keep to your simile: I have only deserted in my own person, if you choose to call it so, and have now voluntarily returned--But you, Herr Burgomaster, how have you guarded, in my absence, the fortress entrusted to your care?"
The burgomaster flushed crimson, but his composure remained unshaken: "Well?"
"You have opened your gates to the most dangerous foes, to everything which cannot fail to destroy the good old Ammergau customs; you have done everything to attract strangers and help Ammergau in a business way--it was well meant in the material sense--but not in the ideal one which you emphasize so rigidly in my case! The more you open Ammergau to the influences of the outside world, the more the simplicity, the piety, the temperance will vanish, without which no great work of faith like the Passion Play is possible. The world has a keen appreciation of truth--the world believes in us because we ourselves believe in it--as soon as we progress so far in civilization that it becomes a farce to our minds, we are lost, for then it will be a farce to the world also. You intend to secure in the Landrath the cutting of a road through the Ettal Mountain. That would be a great feat--one might say: 'Faith removes mountains,' for on account of the Passion Play consent would perhaps be granted, then your name, down to the latest times, would be mentioned in the history of Ammergau with gratitude and praise. But do you know what you will have done? You will have let down the drawbridge to the mortal foe of everything for which you battle, removed the wall which protected the individuality of Ammergau and amid all the changes of the times, the equalizing power of progress, has kept it that miracle of faith to which the world makes pilgrimages. For a time the world will come in still greater throngs by the easier road--but in a few decades it will no longer find the Ammergau it seeks--its flood will have submerged it, washed it away, and a new, prosperous, politic population will move upon the ruins of a vanished time and a buried tradition.
"Freyer!" The burgomaster was evidently moved: "You see the matter in too dark colors--we are still the old people of Ammergau and God will help us to remain so."
"No, you are so no longer. Already there are traces of a different, more practical view of life--of so-called progress. I read to-day at Ludwig's the play-bills of the practise theatre which you have established during the last ten years since the Passion Play! Herr Burgomaster, have you kept in view the seriousness of the mission of Ammergau when you made the actors of the Passion buffoons?"
"Freyer!" The burgomaster drew himself up haughtily.
"Well, Herr Burgomaster, have you performed no farces, or at least comic popular plays? Was the Carver of Ammergau--which for two years you hadpubliclyperformed on the consecrated ground of the Passion Theatre, adapted to keep the impression of the Passion Play in the souls of the people of Ammergau? No--the last tear of remembrance which might have lingered would be dried by the exuberant mirth, which once roused would only too willingly exchange the uncomfortable tiara for the lighter fool's cap! And you gave the world this spectacle, Herr Burgomaster, you showed the personators of the story of our Lord and Saviour's sufferings in this guise to the strangers, who came, still full of reverence, to see the altar--on which the sacred fire had smouldered into smoke! I know you will answer that you wished to give the people a little breathing space after the terrible earnestness of the Passion Play and, from your standpoint, this was prudent, for you will be the gainer if the community is cheerful under your rule. Happy people are more easily governed than grave, thoughtful ones! I admit that you have no other desire than to make the people happy according to your idea, and that your whole ambition is to leave Ammergau great and rich. But, Herr Burgomaster, you cannot harmonize the two objects of showing the world, with convincing truth, the sublime religion of pain and resignation, and living in ease and careless frivolity. The divine favor cannot be purchased without the sacrifice of pleasure and personal comfort, otherwise we are merely performing a puppet show with God, and His blessing will be withdrawn."
Freyer paused and stood gazing into vacancy with folded arms.
The burgomaster watched him calmly a long time. "I have listened to you quietly because your view of the matter interested me. It is the idea of an enthusiast, a character becoming more and more rare in our prosaic times. But pardon me--I can give it only a subjective value. According to your theory, I must keep Ammergau, as a bit of the Middle Ages, from any contact with the outside world, rob it of every aid in the advancement of its industrial and material interests in order, as it were, to prepare the unfortunate people, by want and trouble, to be worthy representatives of the Passion. This would be admirable if, instead of Burgomaster of Ammergau, I were Grand Master of an Order for the practice of spiritual asceticism--and Ammergau were a Trappist monastery. But as burgomaster of a secular community, I must first of all provide for its prosperity, and that this would produce too much luxury there is not, as yet, unfortunately, the slightest prospect! My task as chief magistrate of a place is first to render it as great, rich, and happy as possible, that is a direct obligation to the village and an indirect one to the State. Not until I have satisfiedthiscan I consider the more ideal side of my office--in my capacity as director of the Passion Play. But even there I have no authority to exercise any moral constraint in the sense of your noble--but fanatical and unpractical view. You must have had bitter experiences, Herr Freyer, that you hold earthly blessings so cheap, and you must not expect to convert simple-hearted people, who enjoy their lives and their work, to these pessimistic views, as if we could serve our God only with a troubled mind. We must let a people, as well as a single person, retain its individuality. I want to rear no hypocrites, and I cannot force martyrdom on any one, in order to represent the Passion Play more naturally. Such things cannot be enforced."
"For that very reason you need people who will do them voluntarily! And though, thank Heaven, they still exist in Ammergau, you have not such an over supply that you need repel those who would fain increase the little band. Believe me, I have lived in closer communion with my home in the outside world than if I had remained here and been swayed by the various opposing streams of our brothers' active lives! Do you know where the idea of the Passion Play reveals itself in its full beauty? Not here in Ammergau--but in the world outside--as the gas does not give its light where it is prepared, but at a distance. Therefore, I think you ought not to measure a son of Ammergau's claim according to the time he has spent here, but according to the feeling he cherishes for Ammergau, and in this sense eventhe strangermay be a better representative of Ammergau than the natives of the village themselves."
"Yes, Freyer, you are right--but--onefrank word deserves another. You have surprised and touched me--but although I am compelled to make many concessions to circumstances and the spirit of the times, which are in contradiction to my own views and involve me in conflicts with myself, of which you younger men probably have no idea--nothing in the world will induce me to be faithless to my principles in matters connected with the Passion. Forgive the harsh words, Freyer, but I must say it: Your actions do not agree with the principles you have just uttered, and you cannot make this contradiction appear plausible to any one. Who will credit the sincerity of your moral rigor after you have lived nine years in an equivocal relation with the lady with whom you left us? Freyer, a man who has donethat--can no longer personate the Christ."
Freyer stood silent as a statue.
The burgomaster held out his hand--"You see that I cannot act otherwise; do you not? Rather let the Play die out utterly than a Christus on whom rests a stain. So long as you cannot vindicate yourself--"
Freyer drew himself proudly: "And that I will never do!"
"You must renounce it."
"Yes, I must renounce it. Farewell, Herr Burgomaster!"
Freyer bowed and left the room--he was paler than when he entered, but no sound betrayed the mortal anguish gnawing at his heart. The burgomaster, too, was painfully moved. His poor head was burning--he was sorry for Freyer, but he could not do otherwise.
Just as Freyer reached the door, a man hurried in with a letter, Freyer recognized the large well-known chirography on the envelope as he passed--Countess Wildenau's handwriting. His brain reeled, and he was compelled to cling to the door post. The burgomaster noticed it. "Please sit down a moment, Herr Freyer--the letter is addressed to me, but will probably concern you."
The man retired. Freyer stood irresolute.
The burgomaster read the contents of the note at a glance, then handed it to Freyer.
"Thank you--I do not read letters which are not directed to me."
"Very well, then I must tell you. The Countess Wildenau, not having your address, requests me to take charge of a considerable sum of money which I am to invest for you in landed property or in stocks, according to my own judgment. You were not to hear of it until the gift had been legally attested. But I deem it my duty to inform you of this."
Freyer stood calmly before him, with a clear, steadfast gaze. "I cannot be forced to accept a gift if I do not desire it, can I?"
"Certainly not."
"Then please write to the countess that I can accept neither gifts nor any kind of assistance from--strangers, and that you, as well as I, will positively decline every attempt to show her generosity in this way."
"Freyer!" cried the burgomaster, "will you not some day repent the pride which rejects a fortune thus flung into your lap?"
"I am not proud--I begged my bread on my way here, Herr Burgomaster--and if there were no other means of livelihood, I would not be ashamed to accept the crust the poorest man would share with me--but from Countess Wildenau I will receive nothing--I would rather starve."
The burgomaster sprang from his chair and approached him. His gaunt figure was trembling with emotion, his weary eyes flashed with enthusiasm, he extended his arms: "Freyer--now you belong to us once more--nowyou shall again play the Christus."
Silently, in unutterable, mournful happiness, Freyer sank upon the burgomaster's breast.
His home was appeased.
It was high noon. The children were at school, the grown people had gone to their work. The village was silent and no one stopped Freyer as he hurried down the broad old "Aussergasse," as the main street of the place was called, with its painted houses, toward the graveyard and the church.
In the cemetery beside the church stands a simple monument with a bronze bust. An unlovely head with all sorts of lines, as if nature had intentionally given this soul an ugly husk, out of wrath that it was not to be hers, that she could not have as much power over it as over other dust-born mortals--for this soul belonged to Heaven, earth had no share in it. But no matter how nature strove to disfigure it, its pure beauty shone through the physical covering so radiantly that even mortal eyes perceived only the beauty and overlooked the ugliness.
This soul, which might also be called the soul of Ammergau, for it cherished the whole population of the village, lived for the people, gave them all and kept nothing for itself--this noble spirit, to whom the gratitude of the survivors, and they embraced the whole community, had created a monument, was Alois Daisenberger--the reformer of the Passion Play.
It is a peculiar phenomenon that the people of Ammergau, in contrast to all others, are grateful only for intellectual gifts while they punish physical benefits with scorn. It offends their pride to be compelled to accept such trifling donations and they cherish a suspicion that the donor may boast of his benefits. Whoever has not the self-denial to allay this suspicion by enduring all sorts of humiliations and affronts must not try to aid the Ammergau villagers. He who has done anygooddeed has accomplishednothing--not until he has atoned for it, as though it were something evil, does he lend it its proper value and appease the offended pride of the recipient.
This was the case with Daisenberger. He bore with saintly patience all the angularities and oddities of these strange characters--and they honored him as a saint for it. He had the eye of genius for the natural talent, a heart for the sufferings, appreciation of the intellectual grandeur of these people. And he gave security for it--for no worldly honor, no bishopric which was offered could lure him away. What was it that outweighed everything with which church and government desired to honor him? Whoever stands in the quiet graveyard, fanned by the keen mountain air which brings from the village stray notes of a requiem that is being practised, surrounded by snow-clad mountain-peaks gazing dreamily down on the little mound with its tiny cross, whoever gazes at the monument with its massive head, looking down upon the village from beneath a garland of fresh blue gentians, is overwhelmed by a mournful suspicion that here is concealed a secret in which a great intellect could find the satisfaction of its life! But it seems as if the key rested in Daisenberger's grave.
To this grave Freyer hastened. The first errand of the returned personator of Christ was to his author! The solitary grave lay forgotten by the world. It is a genuine work of faith and love when the author vanishes in his creation and leaves the honor to God. The whole world flocks to the Passion Play--but no one thinks of him who created for it the form which renders it available for the present time. It is the "Oberammergau," not the "Daisenberger" Passion Play.
He gave to the people of Ammergau not only his life and powers--but also that which a man is most loth to resign--his fame. He was one to whom earth could neither give anything, nor take anything away. Therefore there were few who visited his grave in the little Ammergau churchyard. The grace and beauty of his grand and noble artist soul weave viewless garlands for it.
Freyer knelt in mute devotion beside the grave and prayed, not for himself, not even for him who was one of the host of the blessed, but to him, that he might sanctify his people and strengthen them with the sacred earnestness of their task. The longer he gazed at the iron, yet gentle face, without seeing any change in the familiar features, which had once smiled so kindly at him when he uttered for the first time the words expelling the money-changers from the temple--the greater became his grief, as if the soul of his people had died with Daisenberger, as if Ammergau were only a graveyard and he the sole mourner.
"Oh, great, noble soul, which had room for a world, and yet confined yourself to this narrow valley in order to create in it for us a world of love--here lies your unworthy Christus moistening with his tears the stone which no angel will roll away that we may touch your transfigured body and say, give us thy spirit!"
Then, as if the metal mouth from which he implored an answer spoke with a brazen tongue, a bell echoed solemnly on the air. It was twelve o'clock. What the voice said could not be clothed in words. It had exhorted him when, in baptism, he was received into the covenant of Him whom he was chosen to personate--it had consoled him when, a weeping boy, he followed his father's bier, it had threatened him when on Sunday with his schoolmates, he pulled too violently at the bell-rope, it had warned him when he had lingered high up on the peaks of the Kofel or Laaber searching for Alpine roses or, shouting exultantly, climbing after chamois. A smile flitted over his face as he thought of those days! And then--then that very bell had pealed resonantly, like a voice from another world, on the morning of the Passion, at the hour when he stood in the robes of the Christ behind the curtain with the others to repeat the Lord's Prayer before the performance--the lofty, fervent prayer that God would aid them, that all might go well "for His honor." And again it had rung solemnly and sweetly, when he saw the beautiful woman praying at dawn in the garden--to the imaginary God, which he wasnot. Then it seemed as if the bell burst--there was a shrill discord, a keen pang through brain and heart. Oh, memory--the past! Angel and fiend at once--why do you conjure up your visions before one dedicated to the cross and to death, why do you rouse the longing for what is irrevocably lost? Freyer, groaning aloud, rested his damp brow against the cold stone, and the bronze bust, as if in pity, dropped a blue gentian from its garland on the penitent's head with a light touch, like a kiss from spirit lips. He took it and placed it in his pocketbook beside the child's fair curl--the only thing left him of all his vanished happiness.
Then a hand was laid on his shoulder: "I thank you--thatthiswas your first visit." The sexton stood before him: "I see that you have remained a true son of Ammergau. May God be with you!"
Freyer's tears fell as he grasped the extended hand. "Oh, noble blood of Daisenberger, thank you a thousand times. And you, true son of Ammergau--nephew of our dead guardian angel, tell me in his name, will you receive me again in your midst and in the sacred work?"
"I do not know what you have done and experienced," said the sexton, gazing at him with his large, loyal brown eyes. "I only saw you at a distance, praying beside my uncle's grave, and I thought that whoever did that could not be lost to us. By this dear grave, I give you my hand. Will you work with me, live, and if need be die for the sacred will of this dead man, for our great task, as he cherished it in his heart?"
"Yes and amen!"
"Then may God bless you."
The two men looked earnestly and loyally into each other's eyes, and their hands clasped across the consecrated mound, as though taking an oath.
Suddenly a woman, still beautiful though somewhat beyond youth, appeared, moving with dignified cordiality toward Freyer: "Good-day, Herr Freyer; do you remember me?" she said in a quiet, musical voice, holding out her hand.
"Mary!" cried Freyer, clasping it. "Anastasia, why should I not remember you? How do you do? But why do you call me Herr Freyer? Have we become strangers?"
"I thought I ought not to use the old form of speech, you have been away so long, and"--she paused an instant, looking at him with a pitying glance, as if to say: "And are so unhappy." For delicate natures respect misfortune more than rank and wealth, and the sufferer is sacred to them.
The sexton looked at the clock: "I must go, the vesper service begins again at one o'clock. Farewell till we meet again. Are you coming to the gymnasium this evening?"
"Hardly--I am not very well. But we shall see each other soon. Are you married now? I have not asked--"
The sexton's face beamed with joy. "Yes, indeed, and well married. I have a good wife. You'll see her when you call on me."
"A good wife--you are a happy man!" said Freyer in a low tone.
"She has a great deal to do just now for the little one."
"Ah--you have a child, too!"
"And such a beautiful one!" added Anastasia. "A lovely little girl! She will be a Mary some day. But the sexton's wife is spoiling her, she hardly lets her out of her arms."
"A good mother--that must be beautiful!" said Freyer, with a strange expression, as if speaking in a dream. Then he pressed his friend's hand and turned to go.
"Will you not bid me good bye, too?" asked Anastasia. The sexton sadly made a sign behind Freyer's back, as if to say: "he has suffered sorely!" and went into his church.
Freyer turned quickly. "Yes, I forgot, my Mary. I am rude, am I not?"
"No--not rude--only unhappy!" said Anastasia, while a pitying look rested upon his emaciated face.
"Yes!" replied Freyer, lowering his lids as if he did not wish her to read in his eyeshowunhappy. But she saw it nevertheless. For a time the couple stood beside Daisenberger's grave. "Ifhewere only alive--he would know what would help you."
Freyer shook his head. "If Christ Himself should come from Heaven, He could not help me, at least except through my faith in Him."
"Joseph, will you not go home with me? Look down yonder, there is my house. It is very pretty; come with me. I shall consider it an honor if you will stop there!" She led the way. Freyer involuntarily followed, and they soon reached the little house.
"Then you no longer live with your brother, the burgomaster?"
"Oh, no! After I grew older I longed for rest and solitude, and at my sister-in-law's there is always so much bustle on account of the shop and the children--one hears so many painful things said--" She paused in embarrassment. Then opening the door into the little garden, they went to the rear of the house where they could sit on a bench undisturbed.
"What you heard was undoubtedly about me, and you could not endure it. You faithful soul--was not that the reason you left your relatives and lived alone?" said Freyer, seating himself. "Be frank--were you not obliged to hear many things against me, till you at last doubted your old schoolmate?"
"Yes--many evil things were said of you and the princess--but I never believed them. I do not know what happened, but whatever it was,youdid nothing wrong."
"Mary, where did you obtain this confidence?"
"Why," she answered smiling, "surely I know my son--and what mother would distrust herchild?"
Freyer was deeply moved: "Oh, you virgin mother. Marvel of Heaven, when in the outside world a mother abandoned her own child--here a child was maturing into a mother for me, a mother who would have compassion on the deserted one. Mary, pure maid-servant of God, how have I deserved this mercy?"
"I always gave you a mother's love, from the time we played together, and I have mourned for you as a mother all the nine years. But I believed in you and hoped that you would some day return and close your old mother's eyes and, though twenty years had passed, I should not have ceased to hope. I was right, and you have come! Ah! I would not let myself dream that I should ever play with you again in the Passion--ever hold my Christus in my arms and support his weary head when he is taken down from the cross. That happiness transcends every other joy! True, I am an old maid now, and I wonder that they should let me take the part again. I am thirty-nine, you know, rather old for the Mary, yet I think it will be more natural, for Mary, too, was old when Christ was crucified!"
"Thirty-nine, and still unmarried--such a beautiful creature--how did that happen, Mary?"
She smiled: "Oh, I did not wish to marry any one.--I could not care for any one as I did for my Christus!"
"Great Heaven, is this on my conscience too? A whole life wasted in silent hope, love, and fidelity to me--smiling and unreproachful! This soul might have been mine, this flower bloomed for me in the quiet home valley, and I left it to wither while searing heart and brain in the outside world. Mary, I will not believe that you have lost your life for my sake--you are still so beautiful, you will yet love and be happy at some good man's side."
"Oh, no, what fancy have you taken into your head! That was over long ago," she answered gayly. "I am a year older than you--too old for a woman. Look, when the hair is grey, one no longer thinks of marrying." And pushing back her thick brown hair from her temples, she showed beneath white locks--as white as snow!
"Oh, you have grown grey, perhaps for me--!" he said, deeply moved.
"Yes, maternal cares age one early."
He flung himself in the grass before her, unable to speak. She passed her hand gently over his bowed head: "Ah, if my poor son had only returned a happy man--how my heart would have rejoiced. If you had brought back a dear wife from the city, I would have helped her, done the rough work to which she was not accustomed--and if you had had a child, how I would have watched and tended it! If it had been a boy, we would have trained him to be the Christus--would we not? Then for twenty years he could have played it--your image."
Freyer started as though the words had pierced his inmost soul. She did not suspect it, and went on: "Then perhaps the Christus might have descended from child to grandchild in your family--that would have been beautiful."
He made no reply; a low sob escaped his breast.
"I have often imagined such things during the long years when I sat alone through the winter evenings! But unfortunately it has not resulted so! You return a poor lonely man--and silver threads are shining inyourhair too. When I look at them, I long to weep. What did those wicked strangers in the outside world do to you, my poor Joseph, that you are so pale and ill? It seems as if they had crucified you and taken you down from the cross ere life had wholly departed; and now you could neither live nor die, but moved about like one half dead. I fancy I can see your secret wounds, your poor heart pierced by the spear! Oh, my suffering child, rest your head once more on the knee of her who would give her heart's blood for you!" She gently drew his head down and placing one hand under it, like a soft cushion, lovingly stroked his forehead as if to wipe away the blood-stains of the crown of thorns, while tear after tear fell from her long lashes on her son--the son of a virgin mother.
Silence reigned around them--there was a rustling sound above their heads as if the wind was blowing through palms and cedars--a weeping willow spread its boughs above them, and from the churchyard wall the milkwort nodded a mute greeting from Golgotha.
While the lost son of Ammergau was quietly and sadly permitting the miracle of his home to produce its effect upon him, and rising from one revelation to another along the steep path which again led him to the cross, the countess was languishing in the oppressive atmosphere of the capital and its relations.
Three days had passed since the parting from Freyer, but she scarcely knew it! She lived behind her closed curtains and in the evenings sat in the light of lamps subdued by opalescent shades, as if in a never-changing white night, in which there could be neither dusk nor dawn. And it was the same in her soul. Reason--cold, joyless reason, with its calm, monotonous light, now ruled her, she had exhausted all the forces of grief in those farewell hours. For grief, too, is a force which can be exhausted, and then the soul will rest in indifference. Everything was now the same to her. The sacrifice and the cost of the sacrifice. What did the world contain that was worth trouble and anxiety? Nothing! Everything she had hoped for on earth had proved false--false and treacherous. Life had kept its promise to her in nothing; there was no happiness, only he who had no desires was happy--a happiness no better than death! And she had not even reached that stage! She still wanted so many things: honor, power, beauty, and luxury, which only wealth procures--and therefore this also.
Now she flung herself into the arms of beauty--"seeking in it the divine" and the man who offered her his hand in aid would understand how to obtain for her, with taste and care, the last thing she expected from life--pleasure! Civilization had claimed her again, she was the woman of the century, a product of civilization! She desired nothing more. A marriage of convenience with a clever, aristocratic man, with whom she would become a patron of art and learning; a life of amusement and pleasurable occupation she now regarded as the normal one, and the only one to be desired.
While Freyer, among his own people, was returning to primitiveness and simplicity, she was constantly departing farther from it, repelled and terrified by the phenomena with which Nature, battling for her eternal rights, confronted her. For Nature is a tender mother only to him who deals honestly with her--woe betide him who would trifle with her--she shows him her terrible earnestness.
"Only despise reason and learning, the highest powers of mankind!" How often the Mephistopheles within her soul had jeeringly cried. Yes, he was right--she was punished for having despised and misunderstood the value of the work of civilization at which mankind had toiled for years. She would atone for it. She had turned in a circle, the wheel had almost crushed her, but at least she was glad to have reached the same spot whence she started ten years ago. At least so she believed!
In this mood the duke found her on his return from Prankenberg.
"Good news, the danger is over! The old pastor was prudent enough to die with the secret!" he cried, radiant with joy, as he entered.
"Nothing was to be found! There is nothing in the church record! The Wildenaus have no proof and can do nothing unless Herr Freyer plays us a trick with the marriage certificate--"
"That anxiety is needless!" replied the countess, taking from her writing-table the little package containing Freyer's farewell note, the marriage certificate, and the account-book. "There, read it."
Her face wore a strange expression as she handed it to him, a look as if she were accusing him of having tempted her to murder an innocent person. She was pale and there was something hostile, reproachful, in her attitude.
The duke glanced through the papers. "This is strange," he said very gravely: "Is the man so great--or so small?"
"So great!" she murmured under her breath.
"Hm! I should not have expected it of him. Is this no farce? Has he really gone?"
"Yes! And here is something else." She gave him the burgomaster's letter: "This is the answer I received to-day to my offer to provide for Freyer's future."
"If this is really greatness--then--" the prince drew a long breath as if he could not find the right word: "Then--I don't know whether we have done right."
The countess felt as if a thunderbolt had struck her. "Yousay that--you?"
The duke rose and paced up and down the room. "I always tell the truth. If this man was capable of such an act--then--I reproach myself, for he deserved better treatment than to be flung overboard in this way, and we have incurred a great responsibility."
"Good Heavens, and you say this now, when it is too late!" groaned the unhappy woman.
"Be calm. The fault ismine--not yours. I will assume the whole responsibility--but it oppresses me the more heavily because, ever since I went to Prankenberg, I have been haunted by the question whether this was really necessary? My object was first of all to save you. In this respect I have nothing for which to reproach myself. But I overestimated your danger and undervalued Freyer. I did not know him--now that I do my motive dissolves into nothing."
He cast another glance at Freyer's farewell note and shook his head: "It is hard to understand! What must it have cost thus at one blow to resign everything that was dear, give up without conditions the papers which at least would have made him a rich man--and all without one complaint, without any boastfulness, simply, naturally! Madeleine, it is overwhelming--it isshamefulto us."
The countess covered her face. Both remained silent a long time.
The duke still gazed at the letter. Then, resting his head on his hand and looking fixedly into vacancy, he said: "There is a constraining power about this man, which draws us all into its spell and compels us not to fall behind him in generosity. But--how is this to be done? He cannot be reached by ordinary means. I am beginning now to understandwhatbound you to him, and unfortunately I must admit that, with the knowledge, my guilt increases. My justification lay only in the misunderstanding of what now forces itself upon me as an undeniable fact--that Freyer was not so unworthy of you, Madeleine, as I believed!" He read the inscription on the little bank book: "To keep the graves of my dear ones!" and was silent for a time as if something choked his utterance: "How he must have suffered--! When I think howIlove you, though you have never been mine--and he once called you his--resigned you and went away, with death in his heart! Oh, you women! Madeleine, how could you do this in cold blood? If it had been for love of me--but that illusion vanished long ago."
"Condemned--condemned by you!" moaned the countess in terror.
"I do not condemn you, Madeleine, I only marvel that you could do it, if you knew the man as he is."
"I did not know him in this guise," said the countess proudly. "But--I will not be less honest than you, Duke, I am not sure that I could have done it, had I known him as I donow."
The duke passed his handkerchief across his brow, which was already somewhat bald. "One thing is certain--we owe the man some reparation. Something must be done."
"What shall we do? He will refuse anything we offer--though it were myself. That is evident from the burgomaster's letter." She closed her eyes to keep back the tears. "All is vain--he can never forgive me."
"No, he certainly cannot do that. But the man is worthy of having us fulfill the only wish he has expressed to you--"
"And that is?"
"To defer our marriage until the first anguish of his grief has had time to pass away."
The countess drew a long breath, as if relieved of a heavy burden: "Duke, that is generous and noble!"
"If you had been legally wedded and were obliged to be legally divorced, we could not be united in less than a year. Let us show the poor man the honor of regarding him as your lawfully wedded husband and pay him the same consideration as if he were. That is all we can do for him at present, and I shall make it a point of honor to atone, by this sacrifice, in some degree for the heavy responsibility which is undeniably mine and which, as an honest man, I neither can nor desire to conceal from myself."
He went to her and held out his hand. "I see by your radiant eyes, Countess, that this does not cost you the sacrifice which it does me--I will not pretend to be more unselfish than I am, for I hope by means of it to gain in your esteem what I lose in happiness by this time of delay!"
He kissed her hand with a sorrowful expression which she had never seen in him before. "Permit me to take leave of you for to-day, I have an engagement with Prince Hohenheim. To-morrow we will discuss the matter farther.Bon soir!"
The countess was alone. An engagement with Prince Hohenheim! When had an engagement with any one taken precedence--of her? Duke Emil was using pretexts. She could not deceive herself, he was--not really cold, but chilled. What a terrible reproach to her! What neither time, nor any of her great or trivial errors had accomplished, what had not happened even when she preferred a poor low-born man to the rich noble--occurred now, when she rejected the former--for the latter.
Many a person does not realize the strength of his own moral power, and how it will baffle the most crafty calculation. Every tragical result of a sin is merely the vengeance of these moral forces, which the criminal had undervalued when he planned the deed. This was the case with the duke. He had advised a breach with Freyer--advised it with the unselfish intention of saving her, but when the countess followed his advice and he saw by Freyer's conductwhata heart she had broken, he could not instantly love the woman who had been cruel enough to do an act which he could not pardon himself for having counselled.
Madeleine Wildenau suspected this, though not to its full extent. The duke was far too chivalrous to think for a moment of breaking his plighted troth, or letting her believe that he repented it. But the delay which he proposed as an atonement to the man whom they had injured, said enough. Mustallabandon her--every bridge on which she stepped break? Had she lost by her act even the man of whom she was sure--surer than of anything else in the world! How terrible then this deed must have been! Madeleine von Wildenau blushed for herself.
Yet as there are certain traits in feminine nature which are the last a woman gives up, she now hated Freyer, hated him from a spirit of contradiction to the duke, who espoused his cause. And as the feminine nature desires above all things else that which is denied, she now longed to bind the duke again because she felt the danger of losing him. The fugitive must be stopped--the sport might perhaps lend her charmless, wretched life a certain interest. An unsatisfactory one, it is true, for even if she won him again--what then? What would she have in him? Could he be anything more to her than a pleasant companion who would restore her lost power and position? She glanced at her mirror--it showed her a woman of thirty-eight, rouged to seem ten years younger--but beneath this rouge were haggard cheeks. She could not conceal from herself that art would not suffice much longer--she had faded--her life was drawing toward evening, age spared no one! But--when she no longer possessed youth and beauty, when the time came that only the moral value of existence remained, what would she have then? To what could she look back--in what find satisfaction, peace? Society? It was always the same, with its good and evil qualities. To one who entered into an ethical relation with it, it contained besides its apparent superficiality boundless treasures and resources. "The snow is hard enough to bear," people say in the mountains when, in the early Spring, the loose masses have melted into a firm crust. Thus, under the various streams, now cold, now warm, the surface of society melts and forms that smooth icy rind of form over which the light-foot glides carelessly, unconscious that beneath the thin surface are hidden depths in which the philosopher and psychologist find material enough for the study of a whole life. But when everything which could serve the purposes of amusement was exhausted, the countess' interest in society also failed. Once before she had felt a loathing for it, when she was younger than now--how would it be when she was an old woman? The arts? Already their spell had been broken and she had fled to Nature, because she could no longer believe in their beautiful lies.
The sciences? They were least suited to afford pleasure! Had she not grown so weary of her amateur toying with their serious investigations that she fled, longing for a revelation, to the childish miracles of Oberammergau? Aye--she was again, after the lapse of ten years, standing in the selfsame spot, seeking her God as in the days when she fancied she had found His footprints. The trace proved delusive, and must she now begin again where ten years before she ended in weariness and discontent? Must she, who imagined that she had embraced the true essence, return to searching, doubting? No, the flower cannot go back into the closed bud; the feeling which caused the disappointment impelled onward to truth! Love for God had once unfolded, and though the object proved deceptive--thefeelingwas true, and struggled to find its goal as persistently as the flower seeks the sun after it has long vanished behind clouds. But had she missed her way because she thought she had reached thegoaltoosoon? She had followed the trace no longer, but left it in anger--discouragement, at the first disappointment! What if the path which led her to Ammergau was therightone? And the guide along ithadbeen sent by God? What if she had turned from the path because it was too long and toilsome, rejected the guide because he did not instantly bring God near to her impatient heart, and she must henceforth wander aimlessly without consolation or hope? And when the day of final settlement came, what imperishable goods would she possess? When the hour arrived which no mortal can escape, what could aid her in the last terror, save the consciousness of dwelling in the love of God, of going out of love to love--out of longing to fulfillment? She had rejected love, she had turned back in the path of longing and contented herself with earthly joys--and when she left the world she would have nothing, for the soul which does not seek, will not find! A life which has not fulfilled its moral task is notfinished, onlybroken off, death to it is merelydestruction, notcompletion.
The miserable woman flung herself down before the mirror which showed her the transitoriness of everything earthly and, for the first time in her life, looked the last question in the face and read no answer save--despair.
"Help my weakness, oh God!" she pleaded. "Help me upward to Thee. Show me the way--send me an angel, or write Thy will on the border of the clouds, work a miracle, oh Lord, for a despairing soul!" Thus she awaited the announcement of the divine will in flaming characters and angel tongues--and did not notice that a poor little banished household sprite was standing beside her, gazing beseechingly at her with tearful eyes because it had the word which would aid her, the watchword which she could find nowhere--only a simple phrase:the fulfillment of duty!Yet because it was as simple and unassuming as the genius which brought it, it remained unheeded by the proud, vain woman who, in her arrogance, spite of the humiliations she had endured, imagined that her salvation needed a messenger from Heaven of apocalyptic form and power.