"Iamhis wife!" Heaven and earth have heard it. She had conquered. The tremendous deed, fear of which had led her to the verge of crime--love had now done in asinglemoment without conflict or delay. There was joy in heaven and on earth over the penitent sinner! And all the viewless powers which watch the way to the cross, wherever any human being treads it; all the angels, the guardian spirits of the now interrupted Play hastened to aid the new Magdalene, that she might climb the Mount of Calvary to the Hill of Golgotha. And as if the heavenly hosts were rushing down to accompany this bearer of the cross a gust of wind suddenly swept through the open space across the stage and over the audience, and the palms rustled in the breeze, the palaces of Jerusalem tottered, and the painted curtains swayed in the air. This one gust of wind had rent the threatening clouds so that the sun sent down a slanting brilliant ray like the dawn of light when chaos began to disappear!
A light rain which, in the golden streaks, glittered like dusty pearls fell, settling the dust and dispelling the sultriness of the parched earth.
Silence had fallen upon the people on the stage and in the audience, and as a scorched flower thirstily expands to the cooling dew, the sick man's lips parted and eagerly inhaled the damp, refreshing air.
"Oh--he lives!" said the countess in a tone as sweet as any mother ever murmured at the bedside of a child whom she had believed dead, any bride on the breast of her wounded lover.
page422"I have a right to be here--I am his wife!"
"He lives, oh, he lives!" all the spectators repeated.
Meanwhile the physician had come and examined the sufferer, who had been placed on a couch formed of cloaks and shawls: "It is a severe attack of heart disease. The patient must be taken to better lodgings than he has hitherto occupied. This condition needs the most careful nursing to avoid the danger. I have repeatedly called attention to it, but always in vain."
"It will be different now, Doctor!" said the countess. "I have already secured rooms, and beg to be allowed to move him there."
"The Countess!" she suddenly heard a voice exclaim behind her--and when she glanced around, Ludwig Gross stood before her in speechless amazement.
"Can it be? I have just arrived by the train from Munich--but I did not see--"
"I suppose so--I drove here last night. But do not call me Countess any longer, Herr Gross--my name is Magdalena Freyer." The drawing-master made no reply, but knelt beside the sick man, who was beginning to breathe faintly and bent over him a long time: "If only it is not too late!" he muttered bitterly, still unappeased.
The burgomaster approached the countess and held out his hand, gazing into her eyes with deep emotion. "Such an act can never be too late. Even if it can no longer benefit the individual, it is still a contribution to the moral treasure of the world," he said consolingly.
"I thank you. You are very kind!" she answered, tears springing to her eyes.
A litter had now been obtained and the physician ordered the sufferer to be lifted gently and laid upon it: "We will first take him to the dressing-room, and give him some food before carrying him home."
The countess had mentioned the street: "It is some little distance to the house."
The command was obeyed and the litter was carried to the dressing-room. The friends followed with the countess. On the way a woman timidly joined her and gazed at her with large, sparkling eyes: "I don't know whether you remember me? I only wanted to tell you how glad I am that you are here? Oh, how well he has deserved it!"
"Mary!" said the countess, shamed and overpowered by the charm of this most unselfish soul, clasping both her hands: "Mary--Mother of God!" And her head sank on her companion's virgin breast Anastasia passed her arm affectionately around her and supported her as they moved on.
"Yes, we two must hold together, like Mary and Magdalene! We will aid each other--it is very hard, but our two saints had no easier lot. And if I can help in any way--" They had reached the dressing-room, the group paused, the countess pressed Anastasia's hand: "Yes, we will hold together, Mary!" Then she hastened to her husband's side--but the doctor motioned to her to keep at a distance that the sudden sight of her might not harm the sick man when he recovered his consciousness. He felt his pulse: "Scarcely fifty beats--I must give an injection of ether."
He drew the little apparatus from his pocket, thrust the needle into Freyer's arm and injected a little of the stimulating fluid. The bystanders awaited the result in breathless suspense: "Bring wine, eggs, bouillon, anything you can get--only something strong, which will increase the action of the heart."
The drawing-master hurried off. The pastor, who had just heard of the occurrence, now entered: "Is the sacrament to be administered?" he asked.
"No, there is no fear of so speedy an end," the physician answered. "Rest is the most imperative necessity." The burgomaster led the pastor to the countess: "This is Herr Freyer's wife, who has just publicly acknowledged her marriage," he said in a low tone: "Countess Wildenau!"
"Ah, ah--these are certainly remarkable events. Well, I can only hope that God will reward such love," the priest replied with delicate tact: "You have made a great sacrifice, Countess."
"Oh, if you knew--" she paused. "Hark--he is recovering his consciousness!" She clasped her hands and bent forward to listen--"may God help us now."
"How do you feel, Herr Freyer?" asked the doctor.
"Tolerably well, Doctor! Are you weeping, Mary? Did I frighten you?" He beckoned to her and she hastened to his side.
The countess' eyes grew dim as he whispered something to Anastasia.
This was the torture of the damned--Mary might be near him, his first glance, his first words were hers, while she, his wife, stood banished, at a distance! And she had made him suffer this torture for years--without compassion. "Oh, God, Thou art just, and Thy scales weigh exactly!" But the all-wise Father does not only punish--He also shows mercy.
"Where is she?" Anastasia repeated his words in a clear, joyous tone: "You thought you saw her in the passage through which the chorus passed. Oh, you must have been mistaken!" she added at a sign from the physician.
"Yes, you are right, how could she be there--it is impossible."
The countess tried to move forward, but the physician authoritatively stopped her.
The burgomaster gently approached him. "My dear Freyer--what could I do for you, have you no wish?"
"Nothing except to die! I would willingly have played until the end of the performances--for your sake--but I am content."
The drawing-master brought in the food which the physician had ordered.
The latter went to him with a glass of champagne. "Drink this, Herr Freyer; it will do you good, and then you can eat something."
But the sick man did not touch the glass: "Oh, no, I will take nothing more."
"Why not? You must eat something, or you will not recover."
"I cannot"
"Certainly you can."
"Very well, Iwillnot."
"Freyer," cried Ludwig beseechingly, "don't be obstinate--what fancy have you taken into your head?" And he again vainly offered the strengthening draught.
"Shall I live if I drink it?" asked Freyer.
"Certainly,"
"Then I will not take it."
"Not even if I entreat you, Freyer?" asked the burgomaster.
"Oh, do not torture me--do not force me to live longer!" pleaded Freyer with a heart-rending expression. "If you knew what I have suffered--you would not grudge the release which God now sends me! I have vowed to be faithful to my duty until death--did I not, sexton, on Daisenberger's grave? I have held out as long as I could--now let me die quietly."
"Oh, my friend!" said the sexton, "must we lose you?" The strong man was weeping like a child. "Live forus, if not for yourself."
"No, sexton, if God calls me, I must not linger--for I have still another duty. I havelivedfor you--I mustdiefor another."
"But, Herr Freyer!" said the pastor kindly, "suppose that this other person should not be benefitted by your death?"
Freyer looked as if he did not understand him.
"If this other of whom you speak--had come--to nurse and stay with you?" the pastor continued.
Freyer raised himself a little--a blissful presentiment flitted over his face like the coming of dawn.
"Suppose that your eyes didnotdeceive you?" the burgomaster now added gently.
"Am I not dreaming--was it true--was it possible?"
"If you don't excite yourself and will keep perfectly calm," said the physician, "I will bring--your wife!"
"My--wife? You are driving me mad. I have no wife."
"No wife--you haveno wife?" cried a voice as if from the depths of an ocean of love and anguish, as the unhappy woman who had forced her own husband to disown her, sank sobbing before him.
A cry--"my dove!" and his head drooped on her breast
A breathless silence pervaded the room. Every one's hands were clasped in silent prayer. No one knew whether the moment was fraught with life or death.
But it was to bring life--for the Christus must not die on the way to the cross, and Mary Magdalene must still climb to its foot--the last, steepest portion--that her destiny might be fulfilled.
The husband and wife were whispering together. The others modestly drew back.
"And you wish to die? It was not enough that you vanished from my life like a shadow--you wish to go out of the world also?" she sobbed. "Do you believe that I could then find rest on earth or in Heaven?"
"Oh, dear one, I am happy. Let me die--I have prayed for it always! God has mercifully granted it. When I am out of the world you will be a widow, and can marry another without committing a sin."
"Oh, Heaven--Joseph! I will marry no other--I love no one save you."
He smiled mournfully: "You love me now because I am dying--had I lived, you would have gone onward in the path of sin--and been lost. No, my child, I must die, that you may learn, by my little sacrifice, to understand the great atonement of Christ. I must sacrifice myself for you, as Christ sacrificed himself for the sins of mankind."
"Oh, that is not needed. God has taken the will for the deed, and given it the same power. Your lofty, patient suffering has conquered me. You need not die. I mistook you for what you were not--a God, and did not perceive what youwere. Now I do know it. Forgive my folly. To save me you need be nothing save a man--a genuine, noble, lovable man, as you are--then no God will be required."
"Do you believe that?" Freyer looked at her with a divine expression: "Do you believe you could be content with amortal man! No, my child, the same disappointment would follow as before. The flame that blazes within your soul does not feed upon earthly matter. You need a God, and your great heart will not rest until you have found Him. Therefore be comforted: The false Christ will vanish and the true one will rise from His grave."
"No, do not wrong me so, do not die, let me not atone for my sin to the dead, but to the living! Oh, do not be cruel--do not punish me so harshly. You are silent! You are growing paler still! Ah, you will go and leave me standingalonehalf way along the road, unable either to move forward or back! Joseph, I have broken every bond with the duke, have cast aside everything which separated us--have become a poor, helpless woman, and you will abandon me--now, when I have given you my whole existence, when I am nothing but your wife."
Freyer raised himself.
"Give me the wine--now I long to live." A universal movement of delight ran through the group of friends, and the countess held the foaming cup to his lips and supported his head with one hand, that he might drink. Then she gave him a little food and arranged him in a more comfortable position. "Come, let your wife nurse you!" she said so tenderly that all the listeners were touched. Then she laid a cooling bandage on his brow. "Ah, that does me good!" he said, but his eyes rested steadily on hers and he seemed to be alluding to something other than the external remedies, though these quickly produced their effect. His breathing gradually became more regular, his eyes closed, weakness asserted itself, but he slept soundly and quietly.
The physician withdrew to soothe the strangers waiting outside by an encouraging report. Only Freyer's friends and the pastor remained. The countess rose from beside the sleeper's couch and stretched her arms towards Heaven: "Lend him to me, Merciful God! I have forfeited my right to him--I say it in the presence of all these witnesses--but be merciful and lend him to me long enough for me to atone for my sin--that I may not be doomed to the torture of eternal remorse!" She spoke in a low tone in order not to rouse the slumberer, but in a voice which could be distinctly heard by the others. Her hands were clasped convulsively, her eyes were raised as if to pierce to the presence of God--her noble bearing expressed the energy of despair, striving with eternity for the space of a moment.
"Oh, God--oh, God, leave him with me! Hold back Thy avenging hand--grant a respite. Omnipotent One, first witness my atonement--first try whether I may not be saved by mercy! Friends, friends, pray with me!"
She clasped their hands as if imploring help. Her strength was failing. Trembling, she sank beside Ludwig, and pressed her forehead, bedewed with cold perspiration, against his arm.
All bared their heads and prayed in a low tone. Madeleine's breast heaved in mortal anguish and, almost stifled by her suppressed tears, she could only falter, half unconsciously: "Have pity upon us!"
Meanwhile the doctor had made all necessary preparations and was waiting for the patient to wake in order to remove him to his home.
The murmured prayers had ceased and the friends gathered silently around the bed. The countess again knelt beside the invalid, clasping him in a gentle embrace. Her tears were now checked lest she might disturb him, but they continued to flow in her heart. Her lips rested on his hand in a long kiss--the hand which had once supported and guided her now lay pale and thin on the coverlet, as if it would never more have strength to clasp hers with a loving pressure.
"Are you weeping, dear wife?"
That voice! She raised her head, but could not meet the eyes which gazed at her so tenderly. Daredshe, the condemned one, enjoy the bliss of that look? No, never! And, without raising an eyelash, she hid her guilty brow with unutterable tenderness upon his breast. The feeble hand was raised and gently stroked her cheek, touching it as lightly as a withered leaf.
"Do not weep!" he whispered with the voice of a consoling angel: "Be calm--God is good, He will be merciful to us also."
Oh, trumpet of the Judgment Day, what is thy blare to the sinner, compared to the gentle words of pardoning love from a wounded breast?
The countess was overpowered by the mild, merciful judgment.--
A living lane had formed in front of the theatre. He was to be carried home, rumor said, and the people were waiting in a dense throng to see him. At last a movement ran through the ranks. "He is coming! Is he alive? Yes, they say he is!"
Slowly and carefully the men bore out the litter on which he lay, pale and motionless as a dead man. The pastor walked on one side, and on the other, steadying his head, the countess. She could scarcely walk, but she did not avert her eyes from him.
As on the way to Golgotha, low sobs greeted the little procession. "Oh, dear, poor fellow! Ah, just one look, one touch of the hand," the people pleaded. "Wait just one moment."
As if by a single impulse the bearers halted and the people pressed forward with throbbing hearts, modestly, reverently touching the hanging coverlet, and gazing at him with tearful eyes full of unutterable grief.
The countess, with a beautiful impulse of humanity, gently drew his hand from under the wraps and held it to the sorrowing spectators who had waited so long, that they might kiss it--and every one who could get near enough eagerly drank from the proffered beaker of love. Grateful eyes followed the countess and she felt their benediction with the joy of the saints when God lends their acts the power of divine grace. She was now a beggar, yet never before had she been rich enough to bestow such alms: "Yes, kiss his hand--he deserves it!" she whispered, and her eyes beamed with a love which was not of this earth, yet which blendedher, the world, and everything it contained into a single, vast, fraternal community!
Freyer smiled at her--and now she bore the sweet, tender gaze, for she felt as if a time might come when she would again deserve it.
At last they reached the pretty quiet house where she had that morning hired lodgings for him and herself. Mourning love had followed him to the spot, the throng had increased so that the bearers could scarcely get in with the litter. "Farewell--poor sufferer, may God be with you," fell from every lip as he was borne in and the door closed behind him.
The spacious room on the lower floor received the invalid. The landlady had hurriedly prepared the bed and he was laid in it. As the soft pillows arranged by careful hands yielded to the weary form, and his wife bent over him, supporting his head on her arm--he glanced joyously around the circle, unable to think or say anything except: "Oh, how comfortable I am!" They turned away to hide their emotion.
The countess laid her head on the pillow beside him, no longer restraining her tears, and murmuring in his ear: "Angel, you modest, forgiving, loving angel!" She was silent--forcing herself to repress the language of her heart, for the cry of her remorse might disturb the feeble invalid. Yet he felt what moved her, he had always read her inmost soul so long as she loved him--not until strangers came between them did he fail to comprehend her. Now he felt what she must suffer in her remorse and pitied her torture, he thought only of how he might console her. But this moved her more than all the reproaches he had a right to make, for the greater, the more noble his nature revealed itself to be the greater her guilt became!
The friends were to take turns in helping the countess watch the invalid through the night, and now left him. The doctor said that there was no immediate danger and went away to get more medicines. When all had gone, she knelt beside the bed and said softly, "Now I am yours! I do not ask whether you will forgive me, for I see that you have already done so--I ask only whether you will again take the condemned, sin-laden woman to your heart? In my deed today I chose the fate of poverty. I can offer you nothing more in worldly wealth, I can only provide you with a simple home, work for you, nurse you, and atone by lifelong love and fidelity for the wrong I have done you. Will you be content with that?"
Freyer drew her toward him with all his feeble strength. Tears of unutterable happiness were trickling down his cheeks. "I thank Thee, God, Thou has given her to me to-day for the first time! Come, my wife--place your fate trustfully in God's hands and your dear heart in mine, and all will be well. He will be merciful and suffer me to live a few years that I may work for you, not you for me. Oh, blissful words, work for my wife, they make me well again. And now, while we are alone, the first sacred kiss of conjugal love!"
He tried to raise his head, but she pressed it with gentle violence back upon the pillow. "No, you must keep perfectly quiet. Imagine that you are a marble statue--and let me kiss you. Remain cold and let all the fervor of a repentant, loving heart pour itself upon you." She stooped and touched his pale mouth gently, almost timidly, with her quivering lips.
"Oh, that was again an angel's kiss!" he murmured, clasping his hands over the head bowed in penitent humility.
From that hour Magdalena Freyer never left her husband's bedside. Though friends came in turn to share the night-watches, she remained with them. After a few days the doctor said that unless an attack of weakness supervened, the danger was over for the present, though he did not conceal from her that the disease was incurable. She clasped her hands and answered: "I will consider every day that I am permitted to keep him a boon, and submissively accept what God sends."
After that time she always showed her husband a smiling face, and he--perfectly aware of his condition--practiced the same loving deception toward her. Thus they continued to live in the salutary school of the most rigid self-control--she, bearing with dignity a sad fate for which she herself was to blame--he in the happiness of that passive heroism of Christianity, which goes with a smile to meet death for others! An atmosphere of cheerfulness surrounded this sick-bed, which can be understood only by one who has watched for months beside the couch of incurable disease, and felt the gratitude with which every delay of the catastrophe, every apparent improvement is greeted--the quiet delight afforded by every little relief given the beloved sufferer, every smile which shows us he feels somewhat easier.
This cup of anguish the penitent woman now drained to the dregs. True, a friendly genius always stood beside it to comfort her: the hope that, though not fully recovered, he might still be spared to her. "How many thousands who have heart disease, with care and nursing live to grow old." This thought sustained her. Yet the ceaseless anxiety and sleepless nights exhausted her strength. Her cheeks grew hollow, dark circles surrounded her eyes, but she did not heed it.
"I still please my husband!" she said smiling, in reply to all entreaties to spare herself on account of her altered appearance.
"My dove!" Freyer said one evening, when Ludwig came for the night-watch: "Now I must show a husband's authority and command you to take some rest, you cannot go on in this way."
"Oh! never mind me--if I should die for you, what would it matter? Would it not be a just atonement?"
"No--that would be no atonement," he said tenderly, pushing back the light fringe of curls that shaded her brow, as if he wished to read her thoughts on it: "My child, you mustlivefor me--that is your atonement. Do you think you would do anything good if you expiated your fault by death and said: 'There you have my life for yours, now we are quits, you have no farther claim upon me!' Would that be love, my dove?"
He drew her gently toward him: "Or would you prefer that we should be quitsthus, and that I should desire no other expiation from you than your death?" She threw her arms around him, clasping him in a closer and closer embrace. There was no need of speech, the happy, blissful throbbing of her heart gave sufficient answer. He kissed her on the forehead: "Now sleep, beloved wife and rest--do it for my sake, that I may have a fresh, happy wife!"
She rose as obediently as a child, but it was hard for her, and she nodded longingly from the door as if a boundless, hopeless distance already divided them.
"Ludwig!" said Freyer, gazing after her in delight: "Ludwig,isthis love?"
"Yes, by Heaven!" replied his friend, deeply moved: "Happy man, I would bear all your sorrows--for one hour like this!"
"Have you now forgiven what she did to me?"
"Yes, from my very soul!"
"Magdalena," cried Freyer. "Come in again--you must know it before you sleep--Ludwig is reconciled to you."
"Ludwig," said the countess: "my strict, noble friend, I thank you."
Leading him to the invalid, she placed their hands together. "Now we are again united, and everything is just as it was ten years ago--only I have become a different person, and a new and higher life is beginning for me."
She pressed a kiss upon the brow of her husband and friend, as if to seal a vow, then left them alone.
"Oh, Ludwig, if I could see you so happy!"
"Do not be troubled--whoever has experienced this hour with you, needs nothing for himself," he answered, an expression of the loftiest, most unselfish joy on his pallid face.
The countess, before retiring, sent for Martin who was still in Oberammergau, awaiting her orders, and went out into the garden that Freyer might not hear them talking in the next room. "Martin," she said with quiet dignity, though there was a slight tremor in her voice, "it is time for me to give some thought to worldly matters. During the last few days I could do nothing but devote myself to the sick bed. Drive home, my good Martin, and give the carriage and horses to the Wildenaus. Tell them what has happened, if they do not yet know it, I cannot write now. Meanwhile, you faithful old servant, tell them to take all I have--my jewels, my palace, my whole private fortune. Only I should like--for the sake of my sick husband--to have them leave me, for humanity's sake, enough to get him what he needs for his recovery!" here her voice failed.
"Countess--"
"Oh, don't call me that!"
"Yes--for the countess will always be what she is, even as Herr Freyer's wife! I only wanted to say. Your Highness, that I wouldn't do that. If I were you, I wouldn't givethema single kind word. I'll take back the carriage and horses and say that they can have everything which belongs to you. But I won't beg for my Countess! I think it would be less disgrace if you should condescend to accept something from a plain man like myself, who would consider it an honor and whom you needn't thank! I--" he laughed awkwardly: "I only want to say, if you won't take offence--that I bargained for a little house to-day. But I did it in your name, so that Your Highness needn't be ashamed to live with me! I haven't any kith and kin and--and it will belong to you."
"Martin, Martin!" the proud woman humbly bent her head. "Be it so! You shall help me, if all else abandons me. I will accept it as a loan from you. I can paint--I will try to earn something, perhaps from one of the fashion journals, to which I have always subscribed. The maid once told me I might earn my living by it--it was a prophecy! So I can, God willing, repay you at some future day."
"Oh, we won't talk about that!" cried Martin joyously, kissing the countess' hands.
"If I may have a little room under the roof for myself--we'll call it the interest. And I have something to spare besides, for--you must eat, too."
The countess covered her face with her trembling hands.
"Now I'll drive home and in Your Highness' name throw carriage, horses, and all the rest of the rubbish at the Wildenaus' feet--then I'll come back and bring something nice for our invalid which can't be had here--and my livery, for Sundays and holidays, so that we can make a good appearance! And I'll look after the garden and house, and--do whatever else you need. Oh, I've never been so happy in my life!"
He left her, and the countess stood gazing after him a long time, deeply shamed by the simple fidelity of the old man, who wished to wear her livery and be her servant, while he was really her benefactor: In truth--high or low--human nature is common to all. Martin returned: "Doesn't Your Highness wish to bid farewell to the horses? Shan't I drive past, or will it make you feel too badly?"
"Beautiful creatures," a tone of melancholy echoed in her voice as she spoke: "No, Martin, I don't want to see them again."
"Yes, yes--!" Martin had understood her, and pitied her more than for anything else, for it seemed to him the hardest of sacrifices to part with such beautiful horses.
The countess remained alone in the little garden. The stars were shining above her head. She thought of the diamond stars which she had once flung to Freyer in false atonement, to place in the dead child's coffin--if she had them now to use their value to support her sick husband--thatwould be the fitting atonement.
"Only do not lethimstarve, oh, God! If I were forced to see him starve! Oh, God!--spare me that, if it can be!" she prayed, her eyes uplifted with anxious care to the glittering star-strewn vault.
"How is he?" a woman's figure suddenly emerged from the shadow at her side.
"Oh, Mary--Anastasia!"
"How is he?"
"Better, I think! He was very cheerful this evening!--"
"And you, Frau Freyer--how is it with you? It is hard, is it not? There are things to which we must become accustomed."
"Yes."
"I can understand. But do not lose confidence--God is always with us. And--I will pray to the Virgin Mary, whom I have so often personated! But if there is need of anything wherehuman powercan aid, I may help, may I not?"
"Mary--angel, be my teacher--sister!"
"No,mother!" said Anastasia smiling: "For if Freyer is my son, you must be my daughter. Oh, you two poor hearts, I am and shall now remain your mother, Mary!"
"Mother Mary!"--the countess repeated, and the two women held each other in a loving embrace.----
The week was drawing to a close, and the burgomaster was now obliged to consider the question of the distribution of parts. He found the patient out of bed and wearing a very cheerful, hopeful expression.
"I don't know, Herr Freyer, whether I can venture to discuss my important business with you," he began timidly.
"Oh--I understand--you wish to know when I can play again? Next Sunday."
"You are not in earnest?" said the burgomaster, almost startled.
"Not in earnest? Herr Burgomaster, what would be the value of all my oaths, if I should now retreat like a coward? Do you think I would break my word to you a second time, so long as I had breath in my body?"
"Certainly not, so long as it is in your power to hold out. But this time youcannot! Ask the doctor--he will not allow it so soon."
"Am I to askhim, when the question concerns the most sacred duty? I will consult him about my life--but my duties are more than my life. Only thus can I atone for the old sin which ten years ago made me a renegade."
"And you say this now--when you are so happy?"
"Herr Burgomaster," replied Freyer with lofty serenity: "A man who has once been so happy and so miserable as I, learns to view life from a different standpoint! No joy enraptures, no misfortune terrifies him. Everything to which we give these names is fluctuating, and onlyonehappiness is certain: to do one's duty--until death!"
"Herr Freyer! That is a noble thought, but if your wife should hear it--would she agree?"
"Surely, for she thinks as I do--if she did not, we should never have been united--she would never have cast aside wealth, rank, power, and all worldly advantages to live with me in exile. Do you believe she did so for any earthly cause? She thinks so--but I know better: The cross allured her--as it does all who come in contact with it."
"What are you saying about the cross?" asked the countess, entering the room: "Good-morning, Friend Burgomaster!"
"My wife! He will not believe that you would permit me to play the Christus again--even should it cost my life?"
The countess turned pale with terror. "Oh, Heaven, are you thinking of doing so?"
"Yes"--replied the burgomaster: "He will not be dissuaded from it!"
"Joseph!" said the countess mournfully: "Will you inflict this grief upon me--now, when you have scarcely recovered?"
"I assure you that I have played the Christus when I felt far worse than I do now--thanks to your self-sacrificing care, dear wife."
Tears filled the countess' eyes, and she remained silent.
"My dove, do we not understand each other?"
"Yes "--she said after a long, silent struggle: "Do it, my beloved husband--give yourself to God, as I resign you to Him. He has only loaned you to me, I dare not keep you from Him, if He desires to show Himself again to the world in your form! I will cherish and tend and watch over you, that you may endure it! And when you are taken down from the cross, I will rub your strained limbs and bedew your burning brow with the tears of all the sorrows Mary and Magdalene suffered for the Crucified One, and--when you have rested and again raise your eyes to mine with a smile, I will rest your head upon my breast in the blissful feeling that you are no God Who will ascend to Heaven--but a man, a tender, beloved man, and--my own. Oh, God cannot destroy such happiness, and if He does, He will only draw you to Himself, that I may therefore long the more fervently for you, for Him, Who is the source ofalllove--then--" her voice was stifled by tears as she laid her head on his breast--"then your wife will not murmur, but wait silently and patiently till she can follow you." Leaning on his breast, she wept softly, clasping him in her arms that he might not be torn from her.
"Dear wife," he answered gently, and the wonderfully musical voice trembled with the most sacred emotion, "we will accept whatever God sends--loyal to the cross--you and I, beloved, high-hearted woman! Do not weep, my dove! Being loyal to the cross does not mean only to be patient--it means also to be strong! Does not the soldier go bravely to death for an earthly king, and should not I joyfully peril my life for myGod?"
"Yes, my husband you are right, I will be strong. Go, then, holy warrior, into the battle for the ideal and put yourself at the disposal of your brave fellow combatants!" She slowly withdrew her arms from his neck as if taking a long, reluctant farewell.
The burgomaster resolutely approached. "We people of Ammergau must bow to this sacred zeal. This is indeed a grandeur which conquers death! Whoever sees this effect of our modest Play on souls like yours cannot be mistaken in believing that the power which works such miracles does not emanate from men, and must proceed from a God. But as He is a God of love. He will not accept your sacrifice. Freyer must not take the part which might cost him his life. We will find a Christus elsewhere and thus manage for this time."
Freyer fixed his eyes mournfully on the ground. "Now the crown has indeed fallen from my head! God has no longer accepted me--I am shut out from the sacred work!"
The burgomaster placed his wife in his arms: "Let it be your task now to guard this soul and lead it to its destination--this, too, is a sacred work!"
"Yes, and amen!" said Freyer.
***
The ex-countess and the former Christus, both divested of their temporary dignity, verified his words, attaining in humility true dignity! Freyer rallied under the care of his beloved wife, and they used the respite allotted to them by leading a life filled with labor, sacrifice, and gratitude toward God.
"You ask me, dear friend," the countess wrote a year later to the Duke of Barnheim, "whether you can assist me in any way? I thank you for the loyal friendship, but must decline the noble offer. Contentment does not depend upon what we have, but what we need, and I have that, for my wants are few. This is because I have obtained blessings, which formerly I never possessed and which render me independent of everything else. Much as God has taken from me. He has bestowed in exchange three precious gifts: contempt for the vanities of the world, appreciation of the little pleasures of life, and recognition of the real worth of human beings. I am not even so poor as you imagine. My faithful old Martin, who will never leave me, helped me out of the first necessity. Afterwards the Wildenaus' were induced to give up my private property, jewels, dresses, and works of art, and their value proved sufficient to pay Martin for the little house he had purchased for me and to establish for my husband a small shop for the sale of wood-carving, so that he need not be dependent upon others. When he works industriously--which he is only too anxious to do at the cost of his delicate health--we can live without anxiety, though, of course, very simply. I know how many of my former acquaintances would shudder at the thought of such a prosaic existence! To them I would say that I have learned not to seek poetry in life, but to place it there. Yes, tell the mocking world that Countess Wildenau lives by her husband's labor and is not ashamed of it! My friend! To throw away a fortune for love of a woman is nothing--but to toil year in and year out, with tireless fidelity and sacrifice, to earn a wife's daily bread in the sweat of one's brow,issomething! Do you know what it is to a woman to owe her life daily to her beloved husband? An indescribable happiness! You, my friend, would have bestowed a principality upon me, and I should have accepted it as my rightful tribute, without owing you any special gratitude--but the hand whichtoilsfor me I kiss every evening with a thrill of grateful reverence.
"So do not grieve for me! Wed the lovable and charming Princess Amalie of whom you wrote, and should you ever come with your young wife into the vicinity of the little house surrounded by rustling firs, under the shadow of the Kofel, I should be cordially glad to welcome you.
"Farewell! May you be as happy, my noble friend, as you deserve, and leave to me my poverty and mywealth. You see that the phantom has become reality--the ideal is attained.
"Your old friend
"Magdalena Freyer."
When the duke received this letter his valet saw him, for the first time in his life, weep bitterly.
For ten years God granted the loving wife her husband's life, it seemed as if he had entirely recovered. At last the day came when He required it again. For the third time the community offered Freyer the part of the Christus. He was still a handsome man, and spite of his forty-eight years, as slender as a youth, while his spiritual expression, chaste and lofty--rendered him more than ever an ideal representative of Christ God bestowed upon him the full cup of the perfection of his destiny, and it was completed as he had longed. Not on a sick-bed succumbing to lingering disease--but high on the cross, as victor over pain and death. God had granted him the grace of at last completing the task--he had held out this time until the final performance--then, when they took him down from the cross for the last time under the falling leaves, amid the first snow of the late autumn--he did not wake again. On the cross the noble heart had ceased to beat, he had entered into the peace of Him Whom he personated--passed from illusion to truth--from thecopyto theprototype.
Never did mortal die a happier death, never did a more beautiful smile of contentment rest upon the face of a corpse.
"It is finished! You have done in your way what your model did in His, you have sealed the sacred lesson of love by your death, my husband!" said the pallid woman who pressed the last kiss upon his lips.
The semblance had become reality, and Mary Magdalene was weeping beside her Redeemer's corpse.
On the third day after the crucifixion, when the true Christ had risen, Freyer was borne to his grave.
But, like the phœnix from its ashes, on that day the real Christ rose from the humble sepulchre for the penitent.
"When wilt thou appear to me in the spring garden, Redeeming Love?" she had once asked. Now she was--in the autumn garden--beside the grave of all happiness.
When the coffin had been lowered and the pall-bearers approached the worn, drooping widow, the burgomaster asked: "Where do you intend to live now, Madame?"
"Where, except in Ammergau, here--where his foot has marked for me the path to God? Oh, my Gethsemane!"
"But," said the pastor, "will you exile yourself forever in this quiet village? Do you not wish to return to your own circle and the world of culture? You have surely atoned sufficiently."
"Atoned? No, your Reverence, not atoned, for thehighest happinessis no atonement--expiation is beginningnow." She turned toward the Christ which hung on the wall of the church, not far from the grave, and extending her arms toward it murmured: "Now I havenothingsaveThee! Thou hast conquered--idea of Christianity, thy power is eternal!"----
The cloud of tears hung heavily over Ammergau, falling from time to time in damp showers.
Evening had closed in. Through the lighted windows of the ground floor of a little house, surrounded by rustling pines, two women were visible, Mary and Magdalena. The latter was kneeling before the "Mother" whose clasped hands were laid upon her head in comfort and benediction.
The lamps in the low-roofed houses of the village were gradually lighted. The peasants again sat in their ragged blouses on the carvers' benches, toiling, sacrificing, and bearing their lot of poverty and humility, proud in the consciousness that every ten years there will be a return of the moment which strips off the yoke and lays the purple on their shoulders, the moment when in their midst the miracle is again performed which spreads victoriously throughout a penitent world--the moment which brings to weary, despairing humanity peace and atonement--on the cross.