Amid conflicts such as those just described, the countess lived, passing from one stage of development to another and unconsciously growing older--mentally maturing. Several weeks had now passed since her parting with Freyer, but the apathy with which, from that hour, she had regarded all external things still remained. She left the duke to arrange the affair with the Wildenaus, which, a short time ago, she had considered of sufficient importance to sacrifice Freyer. She admired the duke's tact and cleverness, but it seemed as if he were not acting for her but for some other person.
When he brought the news that the Wildenaus, owing to the obstinacy of the witness Martin, had given up their plan of a legal prosecution on the ground of Josepha's deposition, and were ready for an amicable settlement--she did not rejoice over anything save the old servant's fidelity; everything else she accepted as a just recompense of fate in return for anunwarrantablyhigh price she had paid.
She was not annoyed because obliged to pay those whom she had injured a sum so large as considerably to lessen her income. She did not care for the result; her father was now a dying man and the vast sums he had used were again at her disposal. After all--what did it matter? If she married the duke in a year, she would be obliged to give up the whole property! But--need she marry him, if the Wildenaus could prove nothing against her? She sank into a dull reverie. But when the duke mentioned the cousins' desire for the little hunting-castle, life suddenly woke in her again. "Never, never!" she cried, while a burning blush crimsoned her face: "Rather all my possessions than that!" A flood of tears suddenly dissolved her unnatural torpor.
"But, dearest Madeleine, you will never live there again!" said the duke consolingly.
"No--neither I nor any living mortal will enter it again; but, Duke--must I say it? There sleeps my child; there sleeps the dream of my heart--it is the mausoleum of my love! No, leave me that--no stranger's foot must desecrate it! I will do anything, will give the Wildenaus twice, thrice as much; they may choose any of my estates--only not that one, and even if I marry you, when I must resign everything, I will ask you to buy it from my cousins, and you will not refuse my first request?"
The prince gazed at her long and earnestly; for the first time a ray of the old love shone in his eyes. "Do you know that I have never seen you so beautiful as at this moment? Now your own soul looks out from your eyes! Now I absolve you from everything. Forgive me--I was mistaken in you, but this impulse teaches me that you are still yourself. It does me good!"
"Oh, Duke! There is little merit, when the living was not allowed his rightful place--to secure it to the dead!"
"Well, it is at least an act of atonement. Madeleine, there cannot be more joy in Heaven over the sinner who repents than I felt just now at your words. Yes, my poor friend, you shall keep the scene of your happiness and your grief untouched--I will assure you of it, and will arrange it with the Wildenaus."
"Duke! Oh, you are the best, the noblest of men!" she exclaimed, smiling through her tears: "Do you know that I love you as I never did before? I thought it perfectly natural that you could not love me as you saw me during those days. I felt it, though you did not intend to let me see it."
She had not meant to assume it, but these words expressed the charming artlessness which had formerly rendered her so irresistible, and the longer the duke had missed it, the less he was armed against the spell.
"Madeleine!" he held out his arms--and she--did she know how it happened? Was it gratitude, the wish to make at leastoneperson happy? She threw herself on his breast--for the first time he held her in his embrace. Surely she was his betrothed bride! But she had not thought of what happened now. The duke's lips sought hers--she could not resist like a girl of sixteen, he would have considered it foolish coquetry. So she was forced to submit.
"Honi soit qui mal y pense!" he murmured, kissing her brow, her hair--and her lips. But when she felt his lips press hers, it suddenly seemed as though some one was saying dose beside her: "You!" It was the word Freyer always uttered when he embraced her, as though he knew of nothing better or higher than that one word, in which he expressed the whole strength of his emotion! "You--you!" echoed constantly in her ears with that sweet, wild fervor which seemed to threaten: "the next instant you will be consumed in my ardor." Again he stood before her with his dark flaming eyes and the overwhelming earnestness of a mighty passion, which shadowed his pale brow as the approaching thunder-storm clouded the snow-clad peaks of his mountains. And she compared it with the light, easy tenderness, the "honi soi qui mal y pense" of the trained squire of dames who was pressing his first kiss upon her lips--and she loathed the stranger. She released herself with a sudden movement, approached the window and looked out. As she gazed, she fancied she saw the dark figure of the deserted one, illumined by the crimson glare of the forest conflagration, holding out his hand with a divinely royal gesture to raise and shelter her on his breast. Once more she beheld him gaze calmly down at the charred timber and heard him say smiling: "The wood was mine."
Then--then she beheld in the distant East a sultry room, shaded by gay awnings, surrounded by rustling palm-trees, palm-trees, which drew their sustenance from the soil on which the Redeemer's blood once flowed. He sat beside the bed of the mother of a new-born child, whispering sweet, earnest words--and the mother was she herself, the babe was his.
Then she beheld this same man kneeling by the coffin of a child, the rigid, death-white face buried under his raven locks. It was the child born on the consecrated soil of the burning East, which she had left to pine in the cold breath of the Western winter. She withdrew from it the mother-heart, in which the tender plant of the South might have gained warmth. She had left that father's child to die.
Yet he did not complain; uttered no reproach--he remained silent.
She saw him become more and more solitary and silent. The manly beauty wasted, his strength failed--at last she saw him noiselessly cross the carpeted floor of this very room and close the door behind him never to return! No, no, it could not be--all that had happened was false--nothing was true save that he was the father of her child, her husband, and no one else could ever be that, even though she was separated from him for ever.
"Duke!" she cried, imploringly. "Leave me to myself. I do not understand my own feelings--I feel as if arraigned before the judgment seat of God. Let me take counsel with my own heart--forgive me I am a variable, capricious woman--one mood to-day and another to-morrow; have patience with me, I entreat you."
The duke looked gravely at her, and answered, nodding: "I understand--or rather--I am afraid to understand!"
"Duke, I am not suited to marry. Let the elderly woman go her way alone--I believe I can never again be happy. I long only for rest and solitude."
"You need rest and composure. I will give you time and wait your decision, which can now be absolutely untrammelled, since your business affairs are settled and the peril is over."
"Do not be angry with me, Duke--and do not misunderstand me--oh Heaven--you might think that I had only given my promise in the dread of poverty and disgrace and now that the peril was past, repented."
The duke hesitated a moment. Then he said in a low, firm tone: "Surely you know that I am the man of sober reason, who is surprised by nothing. 'Tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner.' So act without regard to me, as your own feeling dictates." He held out his hand: "There was a time when I seriously believed that we might be happy together. That is now past--you will destroy no illusion, if you assert the contrary."
"Perhaps not even a sincere desire of the heart?" replied the countess, smiling.
The duke became deeply earnest. "That suggestion is out of place here.--Am I to wound you from gallantry and increase the measure of your self-reproaches by showing you that I suffer? Or tell a falsehood to lessen your responsibility? We will let all that rest. If you want me, send for me. Meanwhile, as your faithful attorney, I will arrange the matter of the hunting castle."
"Duke--how petty I am in your presence--how noble you are!"
"That is saying far too much, Countess! I am content, if you can bear me witness that at least I have not made myself ridiculous." He left the room--cold, courteous, stoical as ever!
Madeleine von Wildenau hurried to the window and flung it open. "Pour in, light and air, mighty consolers--ah, now I breathe, I live again!"
Once more she could freely show her face, had no occasion to conceal herself. The danger of a "scandal" was over, thanks to the lack of proof. She need no longer shun the Wildenaus--old Martin was faithful and her husband, the most dangerous witness, had gone, disappeared. Now she had nothing more to dread; she was free, mistress of her fortune, mistress of her will, she breathed once more as if new-born.
Liberty, yes,thiswas happiness. She believed that she had found it at last! And she would enjoy it. She need not reproach herself for breaking her troth to the prince, he had told her so--if thereby she could appease the avenging spirits of her deed to Freyer, they must have the sacrifice! True, to be reigning duchess of a country was a lofty position; but--could she purchase it at the cost of being the wife of a man whom she did not love? Why not? Was she a child?--a foolish girl? A crown was at stake--and should she allow sentimental scruples to force her to sacrifice it to the memory of an irrevocably lost happiness?
She shook her head, as if she wanted to shake off a bandage. She was ill from the long days spent in darkness and confinement like a criminal. That was the cause of these whims. Up and out into the open air, where she would again find healthy blood and healthy thoughts.
She rang the bell, a new servant appeared.
"My arrival can now be announced. Tell Martin to bring the carriage round, I will go to drive."
"Very well, Your Highness."
She seemed to have escaped from a ban. She had never known liberty. Until she married the Count von Wildenau she had been under the control of a governess. Then, in her marriage with the self-willed old man she was a slave, and she had scarcely been a widow ere she forged new fetters for herself. Now, for the first time, she could taste liberty. The decision was not pressing. The cool stoic who had waited so long would not lose patience at the last moment--so she could still do what she would.
So the heart, struggling against the unloved husband, deceived the ambitious, calculating reason which aspired to a crown.
The carriage drove up. It was delightful to hear a pair of spirited horses stamping before a handsome equipage, to be assisted to enter by a liveried servant and to be able to say: "This is yours once more!" The only shadow which disturbed her was that on Martin's face, a shadow resting there since she had last visited her castle of the Sleeping Beauty. She well knew for whom the old man was grieving. It was a perpetual reproach and she avoided talking with him, from a certain sense of diffidence. She could justify herself to the keen intelligence of the duke--to the simplicity of this plain man she could not; she felt it.
It was a delightful May evening. A sea of warm air and spring perfumes surrounded her, and crowds thronged the streets, enjoying the evening, after their toilsome work, as if they had just waked from their winter sleep. On the corners groups paused before huge placards which they eagerly studied, one pushing another away. What could it be?
Then old Martin, as if intentionally, drove close to the sidewalk, where the people stood in line out to the street before those posters. There was a little movement in the throng; people turned to look at the splendid equipage, thus leaving the placard exposed. The countess read it--the blood congealed in her veins--there, in large letters, stood the words: "Oberammergau Passion Play." What did it mean? She leaned back in the carriage, feeling as if she must shriek aloud with homesickness, with agonized longing for those vanished days of a great blissful delusion! Again she beheld the marvellous play. Again the divine sufferer appeared to the world--the mere name on that wretched placard was already exerting its spell, for the pedestrians, pausing on their errands, stopped before it by hundreds, as if they had never read the words "Passion Play" before! And the man who helped create this miracle, to which a world was again devoutly pilgrimaging, had been clasped in her arms--had loved her, been loyally devoted to her, to her alone, and she had disdained him! Now he was again bringing the salvation of the divine word and miracle--she alone was shut out, she had forfeited it by her own fault. She was--as in his wonderful gift of divination he had once said--one of the foolish virgins who had burned her oil, and now the heavenly bridegroom was coming, but she stood alone in the darkness while the others were revelling at the banquet.
The rattle of wheels and the trampling of the crowds about her were deafening, and it was fortunate, for, in the confused uproar, the cry which escaped the tortured heart of the proud lady in the coroneted carriage died away unheard. Lilacs and roses--why do you send forth so intoxicating a fragrance, why do you still bloom? Can you have the heart to smile at a world in which there is such anguish? But lilacs, roses, and a beautiful May-sun laughed on, the world was devoutly preparing for the great pilgrimage to Oberammergau. She only was exiled, and returned to her stone palace, alone, hopeless--with infinite desolation in her heart.
A note from the duke awaited her. He took his leave for a few weeks, in order to give her time to understand her own heart clearly. Now she was utterly alone.
From that day the countess showed an unwonted degree of interest in the newspapers. The first question when she waked in the morning was for the papers. But the maid noticed that she opened only the pages containing the reports from Oberammergau.
"Your Highness seems to be very much interested in the Passion Play," the woman ventured to remark.
The countess blushed, and her "yes" was so curt and repellent that the maid was alarmed at her own presumption.
One thing, however, was certain--her mistress, after reading these reports, always looked pale and worn.
And in truth the unhappy woman, while reading the descriptions of this year's performances, felt as if she were drinking a cup of wormwood drop by drop. Freyer's name was echoing throughout the world. Not only did the daily press occupy itself with him--but grave men, æsthetes of high rank, found his acting so interesting that they wrote pamphlets about it and made it the subject of scientific treatises. The countess read them all. Freyer was described as the type in which art, nature, and religion joined hands in the utmost harmony! "As he himself stands above the laws of theatrical routine, he raises us far above what we term stage effect, as it were into a loftier sphere. He does not act--he is the Christ! The power of his glance, the spirituality of the whole figure, and an indefinable spell of the noblest sorrow which pervades his whole person, are things which cannot be counterfeited, which are no play, but truth. We believe what he says, because we feel that this man's soul does not belong to this world, that its own individual life has entered into his part. Because he thinks, feels, and lives not as Joseph Freyer, but as the Christus--is the source of the impression which borders upon the supernatural."
Madeleine von Wildenau had just read these words, which cut her to the heart. Ah, when strangers--critics--men said such things--surely she had no cause to be ashamed. Who would reproach her, a weak, enthusiastic woman, for yielding to this spell? Surely no one--rather she would be blamed for not having arrested the charm, for having, with a profane hand, destroyed the marvel that approached her, favoring her above the thousands who gazed at it in devout reverence!
She leaned her head on her hand and gazed mournfully out of the window at which she sat. They had now been playing six weeks in Oberammergau. It was June. The gardens of the opposite palace were in their fullest leafage; and the birds singing in the trees lured her out. Her eyes followed a little swallow flying toward the mountains. "Oh, mountain air and blue gentians--earthly Paradise!" she sighed! What was she doing here in the hot city when all were flying to the mountains, she saw no society, and the duke had gone away. She, too, ought to have left long before. But where should she go? She could not visit Oberammergau, and she cared for no other spot--it seemed as though the whole world contained no other place of abode than this one village with its gay little houses and low windows--as if in all the world there were no mountains, and no mountain air save in Ammergau. A few burning tears ran down her cheeks. Doubtless there was mountain air, there were mountain peaks higher, more beautiful than in Ammergau, but nowhere else could be found the same capacity for enjoying the magnificence of nature! Everywhere there is a church, a religion, but nowhere so religious an atmosphere as there.
"Oh, my lost Paradise, my soul greets you with all the anguish of the exiled mother of my sex and my sin!" she sighed.
And yet, what was Eve's sin to hers? Eve at least atoned in love and faith with the man whom she tempted to sin. Therefore God could forgive her and send to the race which sprung from her fall a messenger of reconciliation. Eve was a wife and a mother. But she, what was she? Not even that! She had abandoned her husband and lived in splendor and luxury while he grieved alone. She had given him only one child, and even to that had acted no mother's part, and finally had thrust him out into poverty and sorrow, and led a life of wealth and leisure, while he earned his bread by the sweat of his brow. No, the mother of sin was a martyr compared to her, a martyr to the nature whichshedenied, and therefore she was shut out from the bond of peace and pity which Eve's atonement secured.
Some one knocked. The countess started from her reverie. The servant announced that His Highness' nurses had sent for her; they thought death was near.
"I will come at once!" she answered.
The prince lived near the Wildenau Palace, and she reached him in a few minutes.
The sick man's mind was clearer than it had been for several months. The watery effusions in the brain which had clouded his consciousness had been temporarily absorbed, and he could control his thoughts. For the first time he held out his hand to his daughter: "Are you there, my child?"
It touched her strangely, and she knelt by his side. "Yes, father!"
He stroked her hair with a kindly, though dull expression: "Are you well?"
"In body, yes papa! I thank you."
"Are you happy?"
The countess, who had never in her life perceived any token of paternal affection in his manner, was deeply moved by this first sign of affection in the hour of parting. She strove to find some soothing reply which would not be false and yet satisfy his feeble reasoning powers; but he had again forgotten the question.
"Are you married?" he asked again, as if he had been absent a long time, and saw his daughter to-day for the first time.
The nurses withdrew into the next room.
The father and daughter were alone. Meantime his memory seemed to be following some clue.
"Where is your husband?"
"Which one?" asked the countess, greatly agitated. "Wildenau?"
"No, no--the--the other one; let him come!" He put out his hand gropingly, as if he expected some one to clasp it: "Say farewell--"
"Father," sobbed the countess, laying the seeking hand gently back on the coverlet. "He cannot bid you farewell, he is not here!"
"Why not? I should have been glad to see him--son-in-law--grandson--no one here?"
"Father--poor father!" The countess could say no mare. Laying her head on the side of her father's bed, she wept bitterly.
"Hm, hm!" murmured the invalid, and a glance of intelligence suddenly flashed from his dull eyes at his daughter. "My child, are you weeping?" He reflected a short time, then his mind seemed to grow clear again.
"Oh, yes. No one must know! Foolish weaknesses! Tell him I sincerely ask his pardon; he must forgive me. Prejudiced, old--! I am very sorry. Can't you send for him?"
"Oh, papa, I would gladly bring him, but it is too late--he has gone away!"
"Ah! then I shall not see him again. I am near my end."
The countess could not speak, but pressed her lips to her father's cold hand.
"Don't grieve; you will lose nothing in me; be happy. I spent a great deal of money for you--women, gaming, dinners, what value are they all?" He made a gesture of loathing: "What are they now?"
A chill ran through his veins, and his breath grew short and labored. "I'm curious to see how it looks up there!" He pondered for a time. "If you knew of any sensible pastor, you might send for him; such men oftendoknow something."
"Certainly, father!"
The countess hurried into the next room and ordered a priest to be sent for to give extreme unction.
"You wish to confess and take the communion too, do you not, papa?"
"Why yes; one doesn't wish to take the old rubbish when starting on the great journey. We don't carry our soiled linen with us when we travel. I have much on my conscience, Magdalena--my child--most of all, sins committed against you! Don't bear your foolish old father ill-will for it."
"No, father, I swear it by the memory of this hour!"
"And your husband"--he shook his head--"he is not here; it's a pity!"
Then he said no more but lay quietly, absorbed in his own thoughts, till the priest came.
Madeleine withdrew during the confession. What was passing in her mind during that hour she herself could not understand. She only knew that her father's inquiry in his dying hour for his despised, disowned son-in-law was the keenest reproach which had been addressed to her.
The sacred ceremony was over, and the priest had left the house.
The sick man lay with a calm, pleasant expression on his face, which had never rested there before. Madeleine sat down by the bed and took his hand; he gratefully returned her gentle pressure.
"How do you feel, dear father?" she asked gently.
"Very comfortable, dear child."
"Have you made your peace with God?"
"I hope so, my child! So far as He will be gracious to an old sinner like me." He raised his eyes with an earnest, trustful look, then a long--agonizing death struggle came on. But he held his daughter's hand firmly in his own, and she spent the whole night at his bedside without stirring, resolute and faithful--the first fulfillment of duty in her whole life.
The struggle continued until the next noon ere the daughter could close her father's eyes. A number of pressing business matters were now to be arranged, which detained her in the house of mourning until the evening, and made her sorely miss her thoughtful friend, the duke. At last, at nine o'clock, she returned to her palace, wearied almost unto death.
The footman handed her a card: "The gentleman has been here twice to-day and wished to see Your Highness on very urgent business. He was going to leave by the last train, but decided to stay in order to see you. He will try again after nine o'clock--"
The countess carried the card to the gas jet and read: "Ludwig Gross, drawing-teacher." Her hand trembled so violently that she almost dropped it. "When the gentleman comes, admit him!" She was obliged to cling to the balustrade as she went upstairs, she was so giddy. Scarcely had she reached her boudoir when she heard the lower bell ring--then footsteps, a familiar voice--some one knocked as he had done ten years ago in the Gross House; but the man whom he then brought, nothing would ever bring again.
She did not speak, her voice failed, but she opened the door herself--Ludwig Gross stood before her. Both gazed at each other a long time in silence. Both were struggling for composure and for words, and from the cheeks of both every drop of blood had vanished. The countess held out her hand, but he did not seem to see it. She pointed to a chair, and said in a hollow tone: "Sit down," at the same time sinking upon a divan opposite.
"I will not disturb you long, Your Highness!" Ludwig answered, seating himself a long distance off.
"If you disturbed me, I should not have received you."
Ludwig felt the reproof conveyed in the words for the hostility of his manner, but he could not help it.
"Perhaps Your Highness remembers a certain Freyer?"
"Herr Gross, that question is an insult, but I admit that, from your standpoint, you have a right to ask it. At any rate, Freyer did not commission you to do so."
"No, Countess, for he does not know that I am here; if he did, he would have prevented it. I beg your pardon, if I perform my mission somewhat clumsily! I know it is unseemly to meddle with relations of which one is ignorant, for Freyer's reserve allowed me no insight into these. But here there is danger in delay, and where a human life is at stake, every other consideration must be silent. I have never been able to learn any particulars from Freyer. I only know that he was away nine years, as it was rumored, with you, and that he returned a beggar!"
"That, Herr Gross, is no fault of mine."
"Not that, Countess, but it must beyourfault alone which has caused relations so unnatural that Freyer was ashamed to accept from you even the well-earned payment for his labor."
"You are right there, Herr Gross."
"And that would be the least, Countess, but he has returned, not only a beggar, but a lost man."
"Ludwig!"
"Yes, Countess. That is the reason I determined, after consulting with the burgomaster, to come here and talk with you, if you will allow it."
"Speak, for Heaven's sake; what has befallen him?"
"Freyer is ill, Countess."
"But, how can that be? He is acting the Christus every week and delighting the world?"
"Yes, that is just it! He acts, as a candle burns down while it shines--it is no longer the phosphorescence of genius, it is a light which feeds on his own life and consumes it."
"Merciful God!"
"And hewishesto die--that is unmistakable--that is why it is so hard to aid him. He will heed no counsel, follow no advice of the physician, do nothing which might benefit him. Now matters have gone so far that the doctor told us yesterday he might fall dead upon the stage at any hour--and we ought not to allow him to go on playing! But he cannot be prevented. He desires nothing more than death."
"What is the matter?" asked the pale lips of the countess.
"A severe case of heart disease, Countess, which might be arrested for several years by means of careful nursing, perfect rest, and strengthening food; but he has no means to obtain the better nourishment his condition requires, because he is too proud to be a burden on any one, and he lacks the ease of mind necessary to relieve his heart. Nursing is out of the question--he occupies, having given his own home to the poor when he left Ammergau, as you know, a miserable, damp room in a wretched tavern, just outside the village, and wanders about the mountains day and night. Of course speedy death is inevitable--hastened, moreover, by the exertions demanded by his part."
Ludwig Gross rose. "I do not know how you estimate the value of a poor man's life, Countess," he said bitterly--"I have merely done my duty by informing you of my friend's condition. The rest I must leave to you."
"Great Heaven! What shall I do! He rejects everything I offer. Perhaps you do not know that I gave him a fortune and he refused it."
Ludwig Gross fixed an annihilating glance upon her. "If you know no other way of rendering aid here save bymoney--I have nothing more to say."
He bowed slightly and left the room without waiting for an answer.
"Ludwig!" she called: "Hear me!"
He had gone--he was right--did she deserve anything better? No--no! She stood in the middle of the room a moment as if dazed. Her heart throbbed almost to bursting. "Has it gone so far! I have left the man from whose lips I drew the last breath of life to starve and languish. I allowed the heart on which I have so often rested to pine within dark, gloomy walls, bleed and break in silent suffering. Murderess, did you hear it? He is lost, through your sin! Oh, God, where is the crime which I have not committed--where is there a more miserable creature? I have murdered the most innocent, misunderstood the noblest, repulsed the most faithful, abused the most sacred, and for what?" She sank prostrate. The measure was full--was running over.--The angel with the cup of wormwood had overtaken her, as Freyer had prophesied and was holding to her lips the bitter chalice of her own guilt, which she must drain, drop by drop. But now this guilt had matured, grown to its full size, and stood before her, grinning at her with the jeer of madness.
"Wings--oh, God, lend me wings! While I am doubting and despairing here--it may be too late--the terrible thing may have happened--he may have died, unreconciled, with the awful reproach in his heart! Wings, wings, oh God!" She started up and flew to the bell with the speed of thought. "Send for the head-groom at once!" Then she hurried into the chamber, where the maid was arranging her garments for the night. "Pack as quickly as possible whatever I shall need for a journey of two or three days--or weeks--I don't know myself."
"Evening or street costumes?" asked the maid, startled by her mistress' appearance. "Street dresses!"
Meantime the head-groom had come. She hastened into the boudoir: "Have relays of horses saddled and sent forward at once--it is after ten o'clock--there is no train to Weilheim--but I must reach Oberammergau to-night! Martin is to drive, send on four relays--I will give you four hours start--the men must be off within ten minutes--I will go at two o'clock--I shall arrive there at seven."
"Your Excellency, that is scarcely possible"--the man ventured to say.
"I did not ask whether it was possible--I told you that itmustbe done, if it kills all my horses. Quick, rouse the whole stable--every one must help. I shall wait at the window until I see the men ride away."
The man bowed silently, he knew that opposition was futile, but he muttered under his breath: "To ruin six of her best horses in one night--just for the sake of that man in Ammergau, she ought to be put under guardianship."
The courtyard was instantly astir, men were shouting and running to and fro. The stable-doors were thrown open, lanterns flashed hither and thither, the trampling and neighing of horses were heard, the noise and haste seemed as if the wild huntsman was setting off on his terrible ride through the starless night.
The countess stood, watch in hand, at the lighted window, and the figure of their mistress above spurred every one to the utmost haste. In a few minutes the horses for the relays were saddled and the grooms rode out of the courtyard.
"The victoria with the pair of blacks must be ready at two," the head-groom said to old Martin. "You must keep a sharp look-out--I don't see how you will manage--those fiery creatures in that light carriage."
The countess heard it at the window, but she paid no heed. If only she could fly there with the light carriage, the fiery horses, as her heart desired. Forward--was her only thought.
"Must I go, too?" asked the maid, pale with fright.
"No, I shall need no one." The countess now shut the windows and went to her writing-desk, for there was much to be done within the few short hours. Her father's funeral--sending the announcements--all these things must now be entrusted to others and a representative must be found among the relatives to fill her own place. She assigned as a pretext the necessity of taking a short journey for a day or two, adding that she did not yet know whether she could return in time for the funeral of the prince. Her pen fairly flew over the paper, and she finally wrote a brief note to the duke, in which she told him nothing except her father's death. The four hours slipped rapidly away, and as the clock struck two the victoria drove to the door.
The countess was already standing there. The lamps at the entrance shone brightly, but even brighter was old Martin's face, as he curbed the spirited animals with a firm hand.
"To Ammergau, Martin!" said the countess significantly, as she entered the equipage.
"Hi! But I'll drive now!" cried the old man, joyously, not suspecting the sorrowful state of affairs, and off dashed the steeds as though spurred by their mistress' fears--while guilt and remorse accompanied her with the heavy flight of destiny.
It was Sunday. Again the throngs surged around the Passion Theatre, more devout, more numerous than ever.
Slowly, as if his feet could scarcely support him, a tall figure, strangely like one who no longer belongs to the number of the living, tottered through the crowd to the door of the dressing-room, while all reverently made way for him, yet every one perceived that it must be the Christus! Whoever met his eye shuddered as if the incarnation of woe had passed, as if he had seen the face of the god of sorrow.
Eight o'clock had struck, the cannon had announced the commencement of the play, the waiting throng pressed in, crowding each other, and the doors were closed.
Outside of the theatre it was silent and empty. The carriages had driven away. The people who could get no tickets had dispersed. Only the venders of photographs and eatables still sat in their booths, listening idly and sleepily to the notes of the music, which came in subdued tones through the board partition.
Suddenly the ground trembled slightly under the wheels of a carriage driven at furious speed. A pair of horses covered with foam appeared in the distance--in a few seconds a dusty victoria stopped before the Passion Theatre.
"St, st!" said one of the box-tenders, appearing at the top of the stairs and hurrying down to prevent farther disturbance.
"Can I get a ticket?" asked the lady in the carriage.
"I am very sorry--but unfortunately every seat is filled."
"Oh, Heaven! I lost an hour--one of the horses met with an accident, I have driven all night--I beg you--Imustget in!"
The box-tender shrugged his shoulders. "Unfortunately it is impossible!" he said with an offensively lofty manner.
"I am not accustomed to find anything which I desire impossible, so far as it depends upon human beings to fulfill it," she answered haughtily. "I will pay any price, no matter whether it is a thousand marks, more or less--if you will get me even the poorest seat within the walls."
"It is not a question of price!" was the smiling answer. "If we had the smallest space, we could have disposed of it a hundred times over to-day."
"Then take me on the stage."
"Oh, it is no use to speak of that--no matter who might come--no one is allowed there."
"Then announce me to the burgomaster--I will give you my card."
"I am very sorry, but I have no admittance to the stage during the performance. In the long intermission at twelve o'clock you might be announced, but not before."
The countess' heart throbbed faster and faster. She could hear the notes of the music, she fancied she could distinguish the different voices, yet she was not permitted to enter. Now came the shouts of "Hosanna!"--yes, distinctly--that was the entry into Jerusalem, those were the exulting throngs who attended him. If she could only look through a chink--! Now, now it was still--then a voice--oh! she would recognize those tones among thousands. A draught of air bore them to her through the cracks in the walls. Yes, that was he; a tremor ran through every limb--he was speaking.
The world hung on his lips, joy was in every eye, comfort in every heart--within was salvation and she must stand without and could not go to her own husband. But he was not her husband, that had been her own wish. Now it was granted!
The "foolish virgin" outside the door burst into tears like a child.
The man who had just refused her request so coldly, pitied her: "If I only knew how to help you, I would do so gladly," he said thoughtfully. "I'll tell you! If it is so important come during the intermission, but onfoot, without attracting attention, to the rear entrance of the stage--then I'll try to smuggle you in, even if it is only into the passage for the chorus!"
"Oh, sir, I thank you!" said the countess with the look which a lost soul might give to the angel who opened the gates of Paradise.
"I will be there punctually at twelve. Don't you think I might speak to Herr Freyer during the intermission?" she asked timidly.
A smile of sorrowful pity flitted over the man's face. "Oh, he speaks to no one. We are rejoiced every time that he is able to get through the performance."
"Alas! is he so ill?"
"Yes," replied the man in a tone very low as if he feared the very air might hear, "very ill."
Then he went up the stairs again to his post.
"Where shall we drive now?" asked Martin.
The countess was obliged to reflect a short time ere she answered. "I think it would be best--to try to find a lodging somewhere--" she said hesitatingly, still listening to the sounds from the theatre to learn what was passing within, what scene they were playing--who was speaking? "Drive slowly, Martin--" she begged. She was in no hurry now: "Stop!" she called as Martin started; she had just heard a voice that sounded likehis! Martin made the horses move very slowly as he drove on. Thus, at the most tardy pace, they passed around the Passion Theatre and then in the opposite direction toward the village. At the exit from the square an official notification was posted: "No Monday performances will be given hereafter; Herr Freyer's health will not permit him to play two days in succession."
The countess pressed her clasped hands upon her quivering heart. "Bear it--it must be borne--it is your own fault, now suffer!"
A stranger in a private carriage, who was looking for lodgings on the day everybody else was going away, was a welcome apparition in the village. At every house to which she drove the occupants who remained in it hastened to welcome her, but none of the rooms pleased her. For a moment she thought of going to the drawing-master's, but there also the quarters were too low and narrow--and she could not deceive herself, the tie between her and Ludwig Gross was sundered--he could not forgive what she had done to his friend; she avoided him as though he were her judge. And besides--she wanted quiet rooms, where an invalid could rest, and these were not easy to find now.
At last she discovered them. A plain house, surrounded by foliage, in a secluded street, which had only two rooms on the ground floor, where they could live wholly unseen and unheard. They were plain apartments, but the ceilings were not too low, and the sunbeams shone through the chinks of the green shutters with a warm, yet subdued light. A peaceful, cheerful shelter.
She hired them for an indefinite time, and quickly made an agreement with the elderly woman to whom they belonged. There was a little kitchen also, and the woman was willing to do the cooking. So for the next few days at least she had a comfortable home, and now would to Heaven that she might not occupy it in despair.
"Well, now Your Highness is nicely settled," said old Martin, when the housewife opened the shutters, and he glanced down from his box into the pretty room: "I should like such a little home myself."
The countess ordered the luggage to be brought in.
"Where shall I put up, Your Highness?"
"Go to the old post-house, Martin!"
"Shan't I take you to the Passion Theatre?"
"No, you heard that I must walk there." Martin shook his head--this seemed to him almost too humiliating to his proud mistress. But he did not venture to make any comment, and drove off, pondering over his own thoughts.
It was nine o'clock. Three hours before the long intermission. What might not happen during that time? Could she wait, would not anxiety kill her or rob her of her senses? But nothing could be done, shemustwait. She could not hasten the hour on which depended life and death, deliverance or doom.--The nocturnal ride, the fright occasioned by the fiery horses which had upset the carriage and forced her to walk to the next relay and thus lose a precious hour, her agitation beside her father's sick bed, now asserted themselves, and she lay down on one of the neat white beds in the room and used the time to rest and recover her strength a little. She was only a feeble woman, and the valiant spirit which had so long created its own law and battled for it, was too powerful for a woman's feeble frame. It was fortunate that she was compelled to take this rest, or she would have succumbed. A restless slumber took possession of her at intervals, from which she started to look at the clock and mournfully convince herself that not more than five minutes had elapsed.
The old woman brought in a cup of coffee, which she pressed upon her. No food had passed her lips since the day before, and the warm drink somewhat revived her. But the rapid throbbing of her heart soon prevented her remaining in bed, and rising, she busied herself a little in unpacking--the first time in her life that she had ever performed such work. She remembered how she had wept ten years ago in the Gross house, because she was left without a maid.
At last the time of torture was over. The clock struck quarter to twelve. She put on her hat, though it was still far too early, but she could not bear to stay in the room. She wished at least to be near the theatre. When she reached the door her breath failed, and she was obliged to stop and calm herself. Then, summoning all her courage, she raised her eyes to Heaven, and murmuring: "In God's name," went to meet the terrible uncertainty.
Now she repented that she did not use the carriage--she could scarcely move. It seemed at every step as if she were sinking into the earth instead of advancing, as if she should never reach the goal, as if the road stretched longer and longer before her. A burning noonday sun blazed down upon her head, the perspiration stood on her forehead and her lips were parched, her feet were swollen and lame from the night-watch at her father's bedside and the exhausting journey which had followed it. At last, with much effort she reached the theatre. The first part of the performance was just over--throngs of people were pouring out of the sultry atmosphere into the open air and hurrying to get their dinners. But every face wore a look of the deepest emotion and sorrow--on every lip was the one word: "Freyer!" The countess stole through the throngs like a criminal, holding her sunshade lower and drawing her veil more closely over her face. Only let her escape recognition now, avoid meeting any one who would speak to her--this was her mortal dread. If she could only render herself invisible! With the utmost exertion she forced her way through, and now she could at least take breath after the stifling pressure. But everything around her was now so bare, she was so exposed as she crossed the broad open space--she felt as though she were the target for every curious eye among the spectators. She clenched her teeth in her embarrassment--it was fairly running the gauntlet. She could no longer think or feel anything except a desire that the earth would swallow her. At last, tottering, trembling, almost overcome by heat and haste, she reached the welcome shade on the northern side of the theatre and stopped, this was her goal. Leaning against the wall, she half concealed herself behind a post at the door. Women carrying baskets passed her; they were admitted because they were bringing their husbands' food. They glanced curiously at the dusty stranger leaning wearily behind the door. "Who can she be? Somebody who isn't quite right, that's certain!" The tortured woman read this query on every face. Here, too, she was in a pillory. Oh, power and rank--before the wooden fence surrounding the great drama of Christian thought, you crumble and are nothing save what you are in and through love!
The Countess Wildenau waited humbly at the door of the Passion Theatre until the compassionate box-opener should come to admit her.
How long she stood there she did not know. Burning drops fell from brow and eyes, but she endured it like a suffering penitent. This washerway to the cross.
The clock struck one. The flood was surging back from the village: "Oh, God, save me!" she prayed, trembling; her agony had reached its height. But now the man could not come until everyone was seated.
And Freyer, what was he doing in his dressing-room, which she knew he never left during an intermission? Was he resting or eating some strengthening food? Probably one of the women who passed had taken him something? She envied the poor women with their baskets because they were permitted to do their duty.
Then--she scarcely dared to believe it--the box-opener came running out.
"I've kept you waiting a long time, haven't I? But every one has had his hands full. Now come quick!"
He slipped stealthily forward, beckoning to her to follow, and led her through by-ways and dark corners, often concealing her with his own person when anyone approached. The signal for raising the curtain was given just as they reached a hidden corner in the proscenium, where the chorus entered. "Sit down there on the stool," he whispered. "You can't see much, it is true, but you can hear everything. It's not a good place, yet it's better than nothing."
"Certainly!" replied the countess, breathlessly; she could not see, coming from the bright sunshine into the dusky space; she sank half fainting on the stool to which he pointed; she was on the stage of the Passion, near Freyer! True, she said to herself, that he must not be permitted to suspect it, lest he should be unable to finish his task; but at least she was near him--her fate was approaching its fulfillment.
"You have done me a priceless service; I thank you." She pressed a bank note into the man's hand.
"No, no; I did it gladly," he answered, noiselessly retreating.
The exhausted woman closed her eyes and rested a few minutes from the torture she had endured. The chorus entered, and opened the drama again, a tableau followed, then the High Priest and Annas appeared in the balcony of his house, Judas soon entered, but everything passed before her like a dream. She could not see what was occurring on her side of the stage.
Thus lost in thought, she leaned back in her dark corner, forgetting the present in what the next hours would bring, failing to hear even the hosannas. But now a voice startled her from her torpor.--"I spake openly to the world; I ever taught in the synagogue and in the temple--"
Merciful Heaven, it was he! She could not see him, the side scenes concealed him; but what a feeling! His voice, which had so often spoken to her words of love, entreaty, warning, lastly of wrath and despair--without heed from her, without waking an echo in her cold heart, now pealed like an angel's message into the dark corner where she sat concealed like a lost soul that had forfeited the sight of the Redeemer! She listened eagerly to the marvellous tones of the words no longer addressed to her while the speaker's face remained concealed--the face on which, in mortal dread, she might have read the runes engraved by pain, and learned whether they meant life or death? And yet, at least she was near him; so near that she thought he must hear the throbbing of her own heart.
"Bear patiently; do not disturb him in his sacred fulfillment of duty. It will soon be over!"
The play seemed endlessly long to her impatient heart. Christ was dragged from trial to trial. The mockery, the scourging, the condemnation--the tortured woman shared them all with him as she had done the first time, but to-day it was like a blind person. She had not yet succeeded in seeing him, he always stood so that she could never catch a glimpse of his face. Would he hold out? She fancied that his voice grew weaker hour by hour. And she dared not tend him, dared not offer him any strengthening drink, dared not wipe the moisture from his brow. She heard the audience weeping and sobbing--the scene of bearing the cross was at hand!
The sky had darkened, and heavy sultry clouds hung low, forming natural soffits to the open front stage, as if Heaven desired to conceal it from the curious gods, that they might not see what was passing to-day.
Mary and John--the women of Jerusalem and Simon of Cyrene assembled, waiting in anxious suspense for the coming of the Christ. Anastasia was again personating Mary, the countess instantly recognized her pure, clear tones, and the meeting in the fields ten years before came back to her mind--not without a throb of jealous emotion. Now a movement among the audience announced the approach of the procession--of the cross! This time the actors came from the opposite direction and upon the front stage. Every vein in her body was throbbing, her brain whirled, she struggled to maintain her composure; at last she was to see him for the first time!
"It is he, oh God!--it is my son!" cried Mary. Christ stepped upon the stage, laden with the cross. It was acting no longer, it was reality.
His feet could scarcely support him under the burden, panting for breath, he dragged himself to the proscenium. The countess uttered a low cry of alarm; she fancied that she was looking into the eyes of a dying man, so ghastly was his appearance. But he had heard the exclamation and, raising his head, looked at her, his emaciated face quivered--he tottered, fell--hewas obligedto fall; it was in his part.
The countess shuddered--it was too natural!
"He can go no farther," said the executioner. "Here, strengthen yourself." The captain handed him the flask, but he did not take it. "You won't drink? Then drive him forward."
The executioners shook him roughly, but Freyer did not stir--heoughtnot to move yet.
Simon of Cyrene took the cross on his shoulders, and now the Christ should have risen, but he still lay prostrate. The cue was given--repeated--a pause followed--a few of the calmer ones began to improvise, the man who was personating; the executioner stooped and shook him, another tried to raise him--in vain. An uneasy movement ran through the audience--the actors gathered around and gazed at him. "He is dead! It has come upon us!" ran in accents of horror from lip to lip.
An indescribable confusion followed. The audience rose tumultuously from the seats. Caiaphas, the burgomaster, ordered in a low tone: "To the central stage--every one! Quick--and then drop the curtain!" But no one heard him: He bent over the senseless figure. "It is only an attack of faintness," he called to the audience, but the excitement could no longer be allayed--all were pressing across the orchestra to the stage.
The countess could bear it no longer--rank and station, the thousands of curious eyes to which she would expose herself were all forgotten--there is a cosmopolitanism which unites mortals in a common brotherhood more closely than anything else--a mutual sorrow.
"Freyer, Freyer!" she shrieked in tones that thrilled every nerve of the bystanders: "Do not die--oh, do not die!" Rushing upon the stage, she threw herself on her knees beside the unconscious form.
"Ladies and gentlemen--I must beg you to clear the stage"--shouted Caiaphas to the throng, and turning to the countess, whom he recognized, added: "Countess Wildenau--I can permit no stranger to enter, Imustbeg you to withdraw."
She drew herself up to her full height, composed and lofty--an indescribable dignity pervaded her whole bearing: "I have a right to be here--I am his wife!"