On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau

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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive

Transcriber's Notes:

1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/oncrossaromance00saffgoog

2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

[Illustration: "_Accursed be the hour I raised you from the dust to my side_."--Page 339]

ON THE CROSS

A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau

BY Wilhelmine von Hillern AND Mary J. Safford

DREXEL BIDDLE, PUBLISHER PHILADELPHIA

Copyright, 1902

BY

ANTHONY J. DREXEL BIDDLE.

* * *

PRESS OF DREXEL BIDDLE, PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

TO

HERR JOHANNES DIEMER,

THE RENOWNED DELIVERER OF THE PROLOGUE IN THE PASSION PLAYS OF THE LAST DECADE, A TRUE SON OF AMMERGAU, IN WHOSE UNASSUMING PERSON DWELLS THE CALM, DEEP SOUL OF THE ARTIST, THE LOYAL SYMPATHIZING FRIEND, IN WHOSE PEACEFUL HOME I FOUND THE QUIET AND THE MOOD I NEEDED TO COMPLETE THIS WORK, IT IS NOW DEDICATED, WITH GRATEFUL ESTEEM, BY

THE AUTHORESS.

CONTENTS.

Introduction.

CHAPTER I.

A Phantom.

CHAPTER II.

Old Ammergau.

CHAPTER III.

Young Ammergau.

CHAPTER IV.

Expelled from the Play.

CHAPTER V.

Modern Pilgrims.

CHAPTER VI.

The Evening Before the Play.

CHAPTER VII.

The Passion Play.

CHAPTER VIII.

Freyer.

CHAPTER IX.

Signs and Wonders.

CHAPTER X.

In the Early Morning.

CHAPTER XI.

Mary and Magdalene.

CHAPTER XII.

Bridal Torches.

CHAPTER XIII.

Banished from Eden.

CHAPTER XIV.

Pieta.

CHAPTER XV.

The Crowing of the Cock.

CHAPTER XVI.

Prisoned.

CHAPTER XVII.

Flying from the Cross.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Marriage.

CHAPTER XIX.

At the Child's Bedside.

CHAPTER XX.

Conflicts.

CHAPTER XXI.

Unaccountable.

CHAPTER XXII.

Falling Stars.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Noli me Tangere.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Attempts to Rescue.

CHAPTER XXV.

Day is Dawning.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The Last Support.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Between Poverty and Disgrace.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Parting.

CHAPTER XXIX.

In the Deserted House.

CHAPTER XXX.

The "Wiesherrle."

CHAPTER XXXI.

The Return Home.

CHAPTER XXXII.

To the Village.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Received Again.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

At Daisenberger's Grave.

CHAPTER XXXV.

The Watchword.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Memories.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

The Measure is Full.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

On the Way to the Cross.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Stations of Sorrow.

CHAPTER XL.

Near the Goal.

CONCLUSION.

From Illusion to Truth.

INTRODUCTION.

It was in the Garden of Gethsemane that the risen Son of God showed Himself, as a simple gardener, to the penitent sinner. The miracle has become a pious tradition. It happened long, long ago, and no eye has ever beheld Him since. Even when the risen Lord walked among the men and women of His own day, only those saw Him who wished to do so.

But those who wish to see Him, see Him now; and those who wish to seek Him, find Him now.

The Garden of Gethsemane has disappeared--the hot sun of the East has withered it. All things are subject to change. The surface of the earth alters and where the olive tree once grew green and the cedar stretched its leafy roof above the head of the Redeemer and the Penitent, there is nothing now save dead, withered leafage.

But the Garden blooms once more in a cool, shady valley among the German mountains. Modern Gethsemane bears the name of Oberammergau. As the sun pursues its course from East to West, so the salvation which came from the East has made its way across the earth to the West. There, in the veins of young and vigorous nations, still flow the living streams that water the seeds of faith on which the miracle is nourished, and the stunted mountain pine which has sprung from the hard rocks of the Ettal Mountain is transformed to a palm tree, the poor habitant of the little mountain village to a God. It is change, and yet constancy amid the change.

The world and its history also change in the passage of the centuries. The event before which the human race sank prostrate, as the guards once did when the risen Christ burst the gates of the tomb, gradually passed into partial oblivion. The thunder with which the veil of the temple was rent in twain died away in the misty distance; heaven closed forever behind the ascended Lord, the stars pursued their old courses in undisturbed regularity; revelations were silent. Men rubbed their eyes as though waking from a dream and began to discuss what portion was truth and what illusion. The strife lasted for centuries. One tradition overthrew another, one creed crowded out another. With sword in hand and the trumpet of the Judgment Day the _Ecclesia Militans_ established the dogma, enforced unity in faith. But peace did not last long under the rule of the church. The Reformation again divided the Christian world, the Thirty Years War, the most terrible religious conflict the earth has ever witnessed began, and in the fury of the battle the combatants forgot the _cause_ of the warfare. Amid the streams of blood, the clouds of smoke rising from burning cities and villages, the ruins of shattered altars, the cross, the holy emblem for which the battle raged, vanished, and when it was raised again, it was still but an emblem of warfare, no longer a symbol of peace.

There is a single spot of earth where, untouched by the tumult of the world, sheltered behind the lofty, inhospitable wall of a high mountain, the idea of Christianity has been preserved in all its simplicity and purity--Oberammergau. As God once suffered the Saviour of the World to be born in a manger, among poor shepherds, He seems to have extended His protecting hand over this secluded nook and reserved the poor mountaineers to repeat the miracle. Concealed behind the steep Ettal mountain was a monastery where, from ancient times, the beautiful arts had been sedulously fostered.

One of the monks was deeply grieved because, in the outside world, iconoclasm was rudely shaking the old forms and, in blind fear, even rejecting religious art as "Romish." As no holy image would be tolerated; the Saviour and His Saints must disappear entirely from the eyes of men. Then, in his distress, the inspiration came that a sacred drama, performed by living beings, could produce a more powerful effect than word or symbol. So it was determined in the monastery that one should be enacted.

The young people in the neighborhood, who had long been schooled by the influence of the learned monks to appreciate beauty, were soon trained to act legends and biblical poems. With increasing skill they gained more and more confidence, till at last their holy zeal led them to show mankind the Redeemer Himself, the Master of the world, in His own bodily form, saying to erring humanity; "Lo, thus He was and thus He will be forever."

And while in the churches paintings and relics were torn from the walls and crucifixes destroyed, the first Passion play was performed, A. D. 1634, under the open sky in the churchyard of Oberammergau--for this spot, on account of its solemn associations, was deemed the fitting place for the holy work. The disgraced image of love, defiled by blood and flames, once more rose in its pure beauty! Living, breathing! The wounds inflicted more than a thousand years before again opened, fresh drops of blood trickled from the brow torn by its diadem of thorns, again the "Continue ye in My love" fell from the pallid lips of the Lamb of God, and what Puritanism had destroyed in its _dead_ form was born anew in a _living one_. But, amid the confusion and roar of battle, the furious yells of hate, no one heard the gentle voice in the distant nook beyond the mountains.

The message of peace died away, the Crucified One shed His blood unseen.

Years passed, the misery of the people constantly increased, lands were ravaged, the ranks of the combatants thinned.

At last the warriors began to be paralyzed, the raging storm subsided and pallid fear stared blankly at the foes who had at last gained their senses--the plague, that terrible Egyptian Sphinx, lured by the odor of corruption emanating from the long war, stole over the earth, and those at whom she gazed with the black fiery eyes of her torrid zone, sank beneath it like the scorched grass when the simoom sweeps over the desert.

Silence fell, the silence of the grave, for wherever this spectre stalks, death follows.

Fear reconciled enemies and made them forget their rancor in union against the common foe, the cruel, invincible plague. They gazed around them for some helping hand, and once more turned to that over which they had so long quarrelled. Then amid the deathlike stillness of the barren fields, the empty houses, the denuded churches, and the desolated land, they at last heard the little bell behind the Ettal mountain, which every decade summoned the Christian world to the Passion Play, for this was the vow taken by the Ammergau peasants to avert the plague and the divine wrath. Again the ever patient Saviour extended His arms, crying: "Come unto Me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden!" And they did come. They threw themselves at His feet, the wearied, hunted earthlings, stained with dust and blood, and He comforted and refreshed them, while they again recognized Him and learned to understand the meaning of His sacrifice.

Those who thus saw Him and received the revelation announced it to others, who flocked thither from far and near till the little church-yard of Oberammergau became too narrow, and could no longer contain the throngs; the open fields became a sacred theatre to receive the pilgrims, who longed to behold the Redeemer's face.

And, strangely enough, all who took part in the sacred play, seemed consecrated, the plague passed them by, Ammergau alone was spared.

So the pious seed grew slowly, often with periods when it stood still, but the watchful eye can follow it in history.

Peace at last came to the world. Purer airs blew. The Egyptian hyena, satiated, left the ravaged fields, new life bloomed from the graves, and this new life knew naught of the pangs and sufferings of the old. From the brutality and corruption of the long war, the new generation longed for more refined manners, culture, and the pleasures of life. But, as usual after such periods of deprivation and calamity, one extreme followed another. The desire for more refined manners and education led to hyperculture, the love of pleasure into epicureanism and luxury, grace into coquetry, mirth into frivolity. Then came the so-called age of gallantry. The foil took the place of the sword, the lace jabot of the leather jerkin, the smoke of battle gave way to the clouds of powder scattered by heads nodding in every direction.

Masked shepherds and shepherdesses danced upon the graves of a former generation, a new Arcadia was created in apish imitation and peopled with grimacing creatures who tripped about on tiptoe in their high-heeled shoes. Instead of the mediaeval representations of martyrs and emaciated saints appeared the nude gods and cupids of a Watteau and his school. Grace took the place of majesty. Instead of moral law, men followed the easy code of convenience and everything was allowable which did not transgress its rules. Thus arose a generation of thoughtless pleasure seekers, which bore within itself a moral pestilence that, in contrast with the "Black Death," might be termed the "Rosy Death" for it breathed upon the cheeks of all whom it attacked the rosy flush of a fever which wasted more slowly, but none the less surely.

And through this rouged, dancing, skipping age, with the click of its high-heeled shoes, its rustling hooped petticoats, its amorous glances and heaving bosoms, the chaste figure of the Man of Sorrows, with a terrible solemnity upon his pallid brow, again and again trod the stage of Ammergau, and whoever beheld Him dropped the flowing bowl of pleasure, while the laugh died on his lips.

Again history and the judgment of the world moved forward. The "Rosy Death" had decomposed and poisoned all the healthful juices of society and corrupted the very heart of the human race--morality, faith, and philosophy, everything which makes men manly, had gradually perished unobserved in the thoughtless whirl. The tinsel and apish civilisation no longer sufficed to conceal the brute in human nature. It shook off every veil and stood forth in all its nakedness. The modern deluge, the French Revolution burst forth. Murder, anarchy, the delirium of fever swept over the earth in every form of horror.

Again came a change, a transformation to the lowest depths of corruption. Grace now yielded to brutality, beauty to ugliness, the divine to the cynical. Altars were overthrown, religion was abjured, the earth trembled under the mass of destroyed traditions.

But from the turmoil of the throng, fiercely rending one another, from the smoke and exhalations of this conflagration of the world, yonder in the German Garden of Gethsemane again rose victoriously, like a Ph[oe]nix from its ashes, the denied, rejected God, and the undefiled sun of Ammergau wove a halo of glory around the sublime figure which hung high on the cross.

It was a quiet, victory, of which the frantic mob were ignorant; for they saw only the foe confronting them, not the one battling above. The latter was vanquished long ago, He was deposed, and that settled the matter. The people in their sovereignty can depose and set up gods at pleasure, and when once dethroned, they no longer exist; they are hurled into Tartarus. And as men can not do without a god, they create an idol.

The country groaned beneath the iron stride of the Emperor and, without wishing or knowing it, he became the avenger of the God in whose place he stood. For, as the Thirty Years War ended under the scourge of the pestilence, and the age of mirth and gallantry under the lash of the Revolution, the Revolution yielded to the third scourge, the self-created idol!

He, the man with compressed lips and brow sombre with thought, ruled the unchained elements, became lord of the anarchy, and dictated laws to a universe. But with iron finger he tore open the veins of humanity to mark upon the race the brand of slavery. The world bled from a thousand wounds, and upon each he marked the name "Napoleon."

Then, wan as the moon floats in the sky when the glow of the setting sun is blazing in the horizon, the sovereign of the world in his bloody splendor confronted the pallid shadow of the Crucified One, also robed in a royal mantle, still wet with the blood He had voluntarily shed. They gazed silently at each other--but the usurper turned pale.

At last, at the moment he imagined himself most like Him, God hurled the rival god into the deepest misery and disgrace. The enemy of the world was conquered, and popular hatred, so long repressed, at last freed from the unbearable restraint, poured forth upon the lonely grave at St. Helena its foam of execration and curses. Then the conqueror in Oberammergau extended His arms in pardon, saying to him also: "Verily I say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise."

A time of peace now dawned, the century of _thought_. After the great exertions of the war of liberation, a truce in political life followed, and the nations used it to make up for what they had lost in the development of civilization during the period of political strife. A flood of ideas inundated the world. All talent, rejoicing in the mental activity which had so long lain dormant, was astir. There was rivalry and conflict for the prize in every department. The rising generation, conscious of newly awakening powers, dared enterprise after enterprise and with each waxed greater. With increasing production, the power of assimilation also increased. Everything grand created in other centuries was drawn into the circle of their own nation as if just discovered. That for which the enlightened minds of earlier days had vainly toiled, striven, bled, now bloomed in luxuriant harvests, and the century erected monuments to those who had been misjudged and adorned them with the harvest garland garnered from the seeds which they had sowed in tears.

What Galvani and Salomon de Caeus, misunderstood and unheard, had planned, now made their triumphal passage across the earth as a panting steam engine or a flashing messenger of light, borne by and bearing ideas.

The century which produced a Schiller and a Goethe first understood a Shakespeare, Sophocles and Euripides rose from the graves where they had lain more than a thousand years, archaeology brought the buried world of Homer from beneath the earth, a Canova, a Thorwaldsen, a Cornelius, Kaulbach, and all the great masters of the Renaissance of our time, took up the brushes and chisels of Phidias, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Rubens, which had so long lain idle. What Aristotle had taught a thousand, and Winckelmann and Lessing a hundred years before, the knowledge of the laws of art, the appreciation of the beautiful, was no longer mere dead capital in the hands of learned men, but circulated in the throbbing veins of a vigorously developing civilization; it demanded and obtained the highest goal.

The circle between the old and the new civilization has closed, every chasm has been bridged. There is an alternate action of old and new forces, a common labor of all the nations and the ages, as if there was no longer any division of time and space, as if there was but one eternal art, one eternal science. Ascending humanity has trodden matter under foot, conquered science, made manufactures useful, and transfigured art.

But this light which has so suddenly flamed through the world also casts its shadows. Progress in art and science matures the judgment, but judgment becomes criticism and criticism negation. The dualism which permeates all creation, the creative and the destructive power, the principle of affirmation and of denial, cannot be shut out even now, but must continue the old contest which has never yet been decided. Critical analysis opposes faith, materialism wars against idealism, pessimism contends with optimism. The human race has reached the outermost limit of knowledge, but this does not content it in its victorious career, it wishes to break through and discover _the God_ concealed behind. Even the heart of a God must not escape the scalpel which nothing withstood. But the barrier is impenetrable. And one party, weary of the fruitless toil, pulls back the aspiring ones. "Down to matter, whence you came. What are you seeking? Science has attained the highest goal, she has discovered the protoplasm whence all organism proceeded. What is the Creator of modern times? A physiological--chemical, vital function within the substance of a cell. Will ye pray to this, suffer for this, ye fools?"

Others turn in loathing from this cynical interpretation of scientific results and throw themselves into the arms of beauty, seeking in it the divinity, and others still wait, battling between earth and heaven, in the dim belief of being nearest to the goal.

It is a tremendous struggle, as though the earth must burst under the enormous pressure of power demanding room, irreconcilable contrasts.

Then amid the heat of the lecture rooms, the throng of students of art and science, comes a long-forgotten voice from the days of our childhood! And the straining eyes suddenly turn from the teachers and the dissecting tables, from the glittering visions of art and the material world to the stage of Oberammergau and the Passion Play.

There stands the unassuming figure with the crown of thorns and the sorrowful, questioning gaze. And with one accord their hearts rush to meet Him and, as the son who has grown rich in foreign lands, after having eaten and enjoyed everything, longs to return to the poverty of his home and falls repentantly at the feet of his forsaken father, the human race, in the midst of this intoxication of knowledge and pleasure, sinks sobbing before the pale flower of Christianity and longingly extends its arms toward the rude wooden cross on which it blooms!

That powerful thinker, Max Mueller, says in his comparative study of religions:[1] "When do we feel the blessings of our country more warmly and truly than when we return from abroad? It is the same with regard to religion." That fact is apparent here! It is an indisputable verity that, at the precise period when art and science have attained their highest stages of development, the Oberammergau Passion Play enjoys a degree of appreciation never bestowed before, that during this critical age, from decade to decade, people flock to the Passion Play in ever increasing throngs. Not only the uncultivated and ignorant, nay, the most cultured--artists and scholars, statesmen and monarchs. The poor village no longer has room to shelter all its guests; it is positively startling to see the flood of human beings pour in on the evening before the commencement of the play, stifling, inundating everything. And then it is marvellous to notice how quiet it is on the morning of the play, as it flows into the bare room called the theatre, how it seems as it were to grow calm, as if every storm within or without was subdued under the influence of those simple words, now more than two thousand years old. How wonderful it is to watch the people fairly holding their breath to listen to the simple drama for seven long hours without heeding the time which is far beyond the limit our easily wearied nerves are accustomed to bear.

What is it, for whose sake the highest as well as the lowest, the richest and the poorest, prince and peasant, would sleep on a layer of straw, without a murmur, if no bed could be had? Why will the most pampered endure hunger and thirst, the most delicate heat and cold, the most timid fearlessly undertake the hard journey across the Ettal mountain? Is it mere curiosity to hear a number of poor wood-carvers, peasants, and wood-cutters repeat under the open sky, exposed to sun and rain, in worse German than is heard at school the same old story which has already been told a thousand times, as the enemies of the Passion Play say? Would this bring people every ten years from half the inhabited world, from far and near, from South and North, from the mountains and the valleys, from palaces and huts, across sea and land? Certainly not? What is it then? A miracle?

Whoever has seen the Passion Play understands it, but it is difficult to explain the mystery to those who have not.

The deity remains concealed from our earthly vision and unattainable, like the veiled statue of Sais. Every attempt to raise this veil by force is terribly avenged.

What is gained by those modern Socinians and Adorantes who, with ill-feigned piety, seek to drag the mystery to light and make the God a _human being_, in order to worship in the wretched puppet _themselves_? Even if they beheld Him face to face, they would still see themselves only, and He would cry: "You are like the spirit which you understand, not me."

And what do the Pantheists gain who make man _God_, in order to embrace in Him the unattainable? Sooner or later they will perceive that they have mistaken the _effects_ for the _cause_, and the form for the essence. Loathing and disappointment will be their lot, as it is the lot of all who have nothing but--human beings.

But those to whom the visible is only the _symbol_ of the _invisible_ which teaches them from the effect to learn the cause, will, with unerring logical correctness, pass from the form to the essence, from the _illusion_ to the _truth_.

_That_ is the marvel of the modern Gethsemane, which this book will narrate.

CHAPTER I.

A PHANTOM.

Solemn and lofty against the evening sky towers the Kofel, the land-mark and protecting rock-bulwark of Oberammergau, bearing aloft its solitary cross, like a threatening hand uplifted in menace to confront an advancing foe with the symbol of victory.

Twilight is gathering, and the dark shadow of the mighty protector stretches far across the quiet valley. The fading glow of sunset casts a pallid light upon the simple cross which has stood on the mountain peak for centuries, frequently renewed but always of the same size, so that it can be seen a long distance off by the throngs who journey upward from the valley, gazing longingly across the steep, inhospitable mountains toward the goal of the toilsome pilgrimage.

It is Friday. A long line of carriages is winding like a huge serpent up the Ettal mountain. Amid the throng, two very handsome landaus are especially conspicuous. The first is drawn by four horses in costly harnesses adorned with a coronet, which prance gaily in the slow progress, as if the ascent of the Ettal mountain was but pastime for animals of their breed. In the equipage, which is open, sit a lady and a gentleman, pale, listless, uninterested in their surroundings and apparently in each other; the second one contains a maid, a man servant, and on the box the courier, with the pompous, official manner, which proclaims to the world that the family he has the honor of serving and in whose behalf he pays the highest prices, is an aristocratic one. The mistress of this elegant establishment, spite of her downcast eyes and almost lifeless air, is a woman of such remarkable beauty that it is apparent even amidst the confusion of veils and wraps. Blonde hair, as soft as silk, clusters in rings around her brow and diffuses a warm glow over a face white as a tea rose, intellectual, yet withal wonderfully, tender and sensuous in its outlines. Suddenly, as though curious to penetrate the drooping lids and see the eyes they concealed, the sun bursts through a rift in the clouds, throwing a golden bridge of rays from mountain to mountain. Now the lashes are raised to return the greeting, revealing sparkling dark eyes of a mysterious color, varying every instant as they follow the shimmering rays that glide along the cliff. Then something flashes from a half-concealed cave and the beams linger a moment on a pale face. It is an image of Christ carved in wood which, with uplifted hand, bids the new comers welcome. But those who are now arriving do not understand its language, the greeting remains unanswered.

The sunbeams glide farther on as if saying, "If this is not the Christ you are seeking, perhaps it is he?" And now--they stop. On a rugged peak, illumined by a halo of light, stands a figure, half concealed by the green branches, gazing with calm superiority at the motley, anxious crowd below. He has removed his hat and, heated by the rapid walk, is wiping the perspiration from his brow. Long black locks parted in the middle, float back from a grave, majestic face with a black beard and strangely mournful black, far-seeing eyes. The hair, tossed by the wind, is caught by a thorny branch which sways above the prematurely furrowed brow. The sharp points glow redly in the brilliant sunset light, as if crimsoned with blood from the head which rests dreamily against the trunk. A tremor runs through the form of the woman below; she suddenly sits erect, as though roused from sleep. The wandering rays which sought her eyes also lead her gaze to those of the solitary man above, and on this golden bridge two sparkling glances meet. Like two pedestrians who cannot avoid each other on a narrow path, they look and pause. They grasp and hold each other--one must yield, for neither will let the other pass.

Then the sunbeam pales, the bridge has fallen, and the apparition vanishes in the forest shadows.

"Did you see that?" the lady asked her companion, who had also glanced up at the cliff.

"What should I have seen?"

"Why--that--that--" she paused, uncertain what words to choose. She was going to say, "that man up there," but the sentence is too prosaic, yet she can find no other and says merely, "him up there!" Her companion, glancing skyward, shakes his head.

"_Him_ up there! I really believe, Countess, that the air of Ammergau is beginning to affect you. Apparently you already have religious hallucinations--or we will say, in the language of this hallowed soil, heavenly visions!"

The countess leans silently back in her corner--the cold, indifferent expression returns to the lips which just parted in so lovely a smile. "But what did you see? At least tell me, since I am not fortunate enough to be granted such visions," her companion adds with kindly irony. "Or was it too sublime to be communicated to such a base worldling as I?"

"Yes," she says curtly, covering her eyes with her hand, as if to shut out the fading sunset glow in order to recall the vision more distinctly. Then she remains silent.

Night gradually closes in, the panting train of horses has reached the village. Now the animals are urged into a trot and the drivers turn the solemn occasion into a noisy tumult. The vehicles jolt terribly in the ruts, the cracking of whips, the rattle of wheels, the screams of frightened children and poultry, the barking of dogs, blend in a confused din, and that nothing may be wanting to complete it, a howling gust of wind sweeps through the village, driving the drifting clouds into threatening masses.

"This is all we lacked--rain too!" grumbled the gentleman. "Shall I have the carriage closed?"

"No," replied the Countess, opening her umbrella. "Who would have thought it; the sun was shining ten minutes ago!"

"Yes, the weather changes rapidly in the mountains. I saw the shower rising. While you were admiring some worthy wood-cutter up yonder as a heavenly apparition, I was watching the approaching tempest." He draws the travelling rug, which has slipped down, closer around the lady and himself. "Come what may, I am resigned; when we are in Rome, we must follow the Roman customs. Who would not go through fire and water for you, Countess?" He tries to take her hand, but cannot find it among the shawls and wraps. He bites his lips angrily; he had expected that the hand he sought would gratefully meet his in return for so graceful an expression of loyalty! Large drops of rain beat into his face.

"Not even a clasp of the hand in return for the infernal journey to this peasant hole," he mutters.

The carriages thunder past the church, the flowers and crosses on the graves in the quiet church-yard tremble with the shaking of the ground. The lamps in the parsonage are already lighted, the priest comes to the window and gazes quietly at the familiar spectacle. "Poor travellers! Out in such a storm!"

One carriage after another turns down a street or stops before a house. The Countess and her companion alone have not yet reached their destination. Meantime it has grown perfectly dark. The driver is obliged to stop to shut up the carriage and light the lantern, for the rain and darkness have become so dense and the travellers are drenched. An icy wind, which always accompanies a thunderstorm in the mountain, blows into their faces till they can scarcely keep their eyes open. The servant, unable to see in the gloom, is clumsy in closing the carriage, the hand-bags fall down upon the occupants; the driver can scarcely hold the horses, which are frightened by the crowds in pursuit of lodgings. He is not familiar with the place and, struggling to restrain the plunging four-in-hand, enquires the way in broken sentences from the box, and only half catches the answers, which are indistinct in the tumult. Meantime the other servants have arrived. The Countess orders the courier to drive on with the second carriage and take possession of the rooms which have been engaged. The man, supposing it is an easy matter to find the way in so small a place, moves forward. The Countess can scarcely control her ill humor.

"An abominable journey--the horses overheated by the ascent of the mountain and now this storm. And the lamps won't burn, the wind constantly blows them out. You were right, Prince, we ought to have taken a hired--" She does not finish the sentence, for the ray from one of the carriage lamps, which has just been lighted with much difficulty, falls upon a swiftly passing figure, which looks almost supernaturally tall in the uncertain glimmer. Long, black locks, dripping with moisture, are blown by the wind from under his broad-brimmed hat. He has evidently been surprised by the storm without an umbrella and is hurrying home--not timidly and hastily, like a person to whom a few drops of rain, more or less, is of serious importance, but rather like one who does not wish to be accosted. The countess cannot see his face, he has already passed, but she distinguishes the outlines of the slender, commanding figure in the dark dress, noticing with a rapid glance the remarkably elastic gait, and an involuntary: "There he goes again!" escapes her lips aloud. Obeying a sudden impulse, she calls to the servant: "Quick, ask the gentleman yonder the way to the house of Andreas Gross, where we are going."

The servant follows the retreating figure a few steps and shouts, "Here, you--" The stranger pauses a moment, half turns his head, then, as if the abrupt summons could not possibly be meant for _him_, moves proudly on without glancing back a second time.

The servant timidly returns. A feeling of shame overwhelms the countess, as though she had committed the blunder of ordering him to address a person of high rank travelling incognito.

"The gentleman wouldn't hear me," says the lackey apologetically, much abashed. "Very well," his mistress answers, glad that the darkness conceals her blushes. A flash of lightning darts from the sky and a sudden peal of thunder frightens the horses. "Drive on," the countess commands; the lackey springs on the box, the carriage rolls forward--a few yards further and the dark figure once more appears beside the vehicle, walking calmly on amid the thunder and lightning, and merely turns his head slightly toward the prancing horses.

The equipage dashes by--the countess leans silently back on the cushions, and shows no further desire to look out.

"Tell me, Countess Madeleine," asks the gentleman whom she has just addressed as 'Prince,' "what troubles you today?"

The countess laughs. "Dear me, how solemnly you put the question! What should trouble me?"

"I cannot understand you," the prince continued. "You treat me coldly and grow enthusiastic over a vision of the imagination which already draws from you the exclamation: 'There he is _again!_' I cannot help thinking what an uncertain possession is the favor of a lady whose imagination kindles so easily."

"This is charming," the countess tried to jest. "My prince jealous--of a phantom?"

"That is just it. If a _phantom_ can produce such variations in the temperature of your heart toward me, how must my hopes stand?"

"Dear Prince, you know that whether with or without a phantom, I could never yet answer this question which Your Highness frequently condescends to ask me."

"I believe, Countess, that one always stands between us! You pursue some unknown ideal which you do not find in me, the realist, who has nothing to offer you save prosaic facts--his hand, his principality, and an affection for which unhappily he lacks poetic phrases."

"You exaggerate, Prince, and are growing severe. There is a touch of truth--I am always honest--yet, as you know, you are the most favored of all my suitors. Still it is true that an unknown disputes precedence with you. This rival is but the man of my imagination--but the world contains no one like my ideal, so you have nothing to fear."

"What ideal do you demand, Countess, that no one can attain it?"

"Ah! a very simple one, yet you conventional natures will never understand it. It is the simplicity of the lost Paradise to which you can never return. I am by nature a lover of the ideal--I am enthusiastic and need enthusiasm; but you call me a visionary when I am in the most sacred earnest. I yearn for a husband who believes in my ideal, I want no one from whom I must conceal it in order to avoid ridicule, and thus be unable to be true to my highest self. He whom my soul seeks must be at once a man and a child--a man in character and a child in heart. But where in our modern life is such a person to be found? Where is gentleness without feeble sentimentality? Where is there enthusiasm without fantastic vagueness, where simplicity of heart without narrowness of mind? Whoever possesses a manly character and a strong intellect cannot escape the demands which science and politics impose, and this detracts from the emotional life, gives prominent development to concrete thought, makes men realistic and critical. But of all who suffer from these defects of our time, you are the best, Prince!" she adds, smilingly.'

"That is sorry comfort," murmurs the prince. "It is a peculiar thing to have an invisible rival; who will guarantee that some person may not appear who answers to the description?"

"That is the reason I have not yet given you my consent," replies the countess, gravely.

Her companion sighs heavily, makes no reply, but gazes steadfastly into the raging storm. Alter a time he says, softly, "If I did not love you so deeply, Countess Madeleine--"

"You would not bear with me so long, would you?" asks the countess, holding out her hand as if beseeching pardon.

This one half unconscious expression of friendship disarms the irritated man.--He bends over the slender little hand and raises it tenderly to his lips.

"She must yet be mine!" he says under his breath, by way of consolation, like all men whose hopes are doubtful. "I will even dare the battle with a phantom."

CHAPTER II.

OLD AMMERGAU.

At last, alter a long circuit and many enquiries, the goal was gained. The dripping, sorely shaken equipage stopped with two wheels in a ditch filled with rain water, whose overflow flooded the path to the house. The courier and maid seemed to have missed their way, too, for the second carriage was not there. People hurried out of the low doorway shading small flickering candles with their hands. The countess shrank back. What strange faces these peasants had! An old man with a terribly hang-dog countenance, long grey hair, a pointed Jewish beard, sharp hooked nose, and sparkling eyes! And two elderly women, one short and fat, with prominent eyes and black curling hair, the other a tall, thin, odd-looking person with tangled coal-black hair, hooked nose, and glittering black eyes.

In the mysterious shadows cast by the wavering lights upon the sharply cut faces, the whole group looked startlingly like a band of gypsies.

"Oh! are these Ammergau people?" whispered the countess in a disappointed tone.

"Does Gross, the wood-carver, live here?" the prince enquired.

"Yes," was the reply. "Gross, the stone-cutter. Have you engaged rooms here?"

"We wrote from Tegernsee for lodgings. The Countess von Wildenau," answered the prince.

"Oh yes, yes! Everything is ready! The lady will lodge with us; the carriage and servants can go to the old post-house. I have the honor to bid you good evening," said the old man. "I am sorry you have had such bad weather. But we have a great deal of rain here."

The prince alighted--the water splashed high under his feet.

"Oh Sephi, bring a board, quick; the countess cannot get out here!" cried the old man with eager deprecation of the discomfort threatening the lady. Sephi, the tall, thin woman, dragged a plank from the garden, while a one-eyed dog began to bark furiously.

The plank was laid down, but instantly sunk under the water, and the countess was obliged to wade through the flood. As she alighted, she felt as if she should strike her head against the edge of the overhanging roof--the house was so low. Fresco paintings, dark with age, appeared to stretch and writhe in distorted shapes in the flickering light. The place seemed more and more dismal to the countess.

"Shall I carry you across?" asked the prince.

"Oh no!" she answered reprovingly, while her little foot sought the bottom of the pool. The ice-cold water covered her delicate boot to the ankle. She had been so full of eager anticipation, in such a poetic mood, and prosaic reality dealt her a blow in the face. She shivered as she walked silently through the water.

"Come in, your rooms are ready," said the old man cheeringly.

They passed through a kitchen black with myriads of flies, into an apartment formerly used as the workshop, now converted into a parlor. Two children were asleep on an old torn sofa. In one corner lay sacks of straw, prepared for couches, the owners of the house considered it a matter of course that they should have no beds during the Passion. A smoking kerosene lamp hung from, the dark worm-eaten wooden ceiling, diffusing more smoke than light. The room was so low that the countess could scarcely stand erect, and besides the ceiling had sunk--in the dim, smoke-laden atmosphere the beams threatened to fall at any moment.

A sense of suffocation oppressed the new-comer. She was utterly exhausted, chilled, nervous to the verge of weeping. Her white teeth chattered. She shivered with cold and discomfort. Her host opened a low door into a small room containing two beds, a table, an old-fashioned dark cupboard, and two chairs.

"There," he cried in a tone of great satisfaction, "that is your chamber. Now you can rest, and if you want anything, you need only call and one of my daughters will come in and wait upon you."

"Yes, my good fellow, but where am _I_ to lodge?" asked the prince.

"Oh--then you don't belong together? In that case the countess must sleep with another lady, and the gentleman up here."

He pointed to a little stair-case in the corner which, according to the custom in old peasant houses, led from one room through a trap-door into another directly above it.

"But I can't sleep _there_, it would inconvenience the lady," said the prince. "Have you no other rooms?"

"Why yes; but they are engaged for to-morrow," replied Andreas Gross, while the two sisters stood staring helplessly.

"Then give me the rooms and send the other people away."

"Oh! I can't do that, sir.--They are promised."

"Good Heavens! Ill pay you twice, ten times as much."

"Why, sir, if you paid me twenty times the price, I could not do it; I must not break my promise!" said the old man with gentle firmness.

"Ah," thought the prince, "he wants to screw me--but I'll manage that, Countess, excuse me a few minutes while I look for another lodging."

"For Heaven's sake, try to find one for me, too. I would rather spend the night in the carriage than stay here!" replied the countess in French.

"Yes, it is horrible! but it will not be difficult to find something better. Good-bye!" he answered in the same language.

"Don't leave me alone with these people too long. Come back soon; I am afraid," she added, still using the French tongue.

"Really?" the prince answered, laughing; but a ray of pleasure sparkled in his eyes.

Meanwhile, the little girl who was asleep on the sofa had waked and now came into the room.

The countess requested every one to retire that she might rest, and the peasants modestly withdrew. But when she tried to fasten the door, it had neither lock nor bolt, only a little wire hook which slipped into a loose ring.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, startled. "I cannot lock it."

"You need have no anxiety," replied the old man soothingly, "we sleep in the next room." But the vicinity of those strange people, when she could not lock the door, was exactly what the countess feared.

She slipped the miserable wire hook into its fastening and sat down on one of the beds, which had no mattresses--nothing but sacking.

Covering her face with her hands, she gave free course to indignant tears. She still wore her hat and cloak, which she had not ventured to take off, from a vague feeling of being encompassed by perils whence she might need to fly at any moment. In such a situation, surely it was safer not to lay aside one's wraps. If the worst came, she would remain so all night. To go to bed in a house where the roof might fall and such strange figures were stealing about, was too great a risk. Beside the bed on which the countess sat was a door, which, amid all the terrors, she had not noticed. Now it seemed as though she heard a scraping noise like the filing of iron. Then came hollow blows and a peculiar rattling. Horrible, incomprehensible sounds! Now a blow fell upon the door, whose fastening was little better than the other. And now another.

"The very powers of hell are let loose here," cried the countess, starting up. Her cold, wet feet seemed paralyzed, her senses were on the verge of failing. And she was alone in this terrible strait. Where were the servants? Perhaps they had been led astray, robbed and murdered--and meanwhile the storm outside was raging in all its fury.

There came another attempt to burst the door which, under two crashing blows, began to yield. The countess, as if in a dream, rushed to the workshop and, almost fainting, called to her aid the uncanny people there--one terror against another. With blanched lips she told them that some one had entered the house, that some madman or fugitive from justice was trying to get in.

"Oh! that is nothing," said Andreas, with what seemed to the terrified woman a fiendish smile, and walking straight to the door, while the countess shrieked aloud, opened it, and--a head was thrust in. A mild, big, stupid face stared at the light with wondering eyes and snorted from wide pink nostrils at the strange surroundings. A bay horse--a good-natured cart horse occupied the next room to the Countess Wildenau!

"You see the criminal. He is a cribber, that is the cause of the horrible noises you heard."

The trembling woman stared at the mild, stupid equine face as though it was a heavenly vision--yet spite of her relief and much as she loved horses, she could not have gone to bed comfortably, since as the door was already half broken down by the elephantine hoofs of the worthy brute, there was a chance that during the night, lured by the aromatic odor of the sea-weed, which formed the stuffing of the bed, the bay might mistake the countess' couch for a manger and rouse her somewhat rudely with his snuffing muzzle.

"Oh, we'll make that all right at once," said Andreas. "We'll fasten him so that he can't get free again, and the carter comes at four in the morning, then you will not be disturbed any more."

"After not having closed my eyes all night," murmured the countess, following the old man to see that he fastened the horse securely. Yes, the room which opened from here by a door with neither lock nor threshold was a stable. Several frightened hens flew from the straw--this, too. "When the horse has left the stable the cocks will begin to crow. What a night after the fatigues of the day!" The old man smiled with irritating superiority, and said:

"Yes, that is the way in the country."

"No, I won't stay here--I would rather spend the night in the carriage. How can people exist in this place, even for a day," thought the countess.

"Won't you have something to eat? Shall my daughter make a schmarren?"[2]

"A schmarren! In that kitchen, with those flies." The countess felt a sense of loathing.

"No, thank you." Even if she was starving, she could not eat a mouthful in this place.

The bay was at last tied and, for want of other occupation, continued to gnaw his crib and to suck the air, a proceeding terribly trying to the nerves of his fair neighbor in the next room. At last--oh joy, deliverance--the second carriage rattled up to the house, bringing the maid and the courier.

"Come in, come in!" called the countess from the window. "Don't have any of the luggage taken off. I shall not stay here."

The two servants entered with flushed faces.

"Where in the world have you been so long?" asked their mistress, imperiously, glad to be able, at last, to vent her ill-humor on some one.

"The driver missed the way," stammered the courier, casting a side glance at the blushing maid. The countess perceived the situation at a glance and was herself again. Fear and timidity, all her nervous weakness vanished before the pride of the offended mistress, who had been kept waiting an hour, at whose close the tardy servants entered with faces whose confusion plainly betrayed that so long a delay was needless.

She drew herself up to her full height, feminine fears forgotten in the pride of the lady of rank.

"Courier, you are dismissed--not another word!"

"Then I beg Your Highness to discharge me, too," said the excited maid, thus betraying herself. A contemptuous glance from the countess rested upon the culprit, but without hesitation, she said, quietly:

"Very well. You can both go to the steward for your wages. Good evening."

Both left the room pale and silent. They had not expected this dismissal, but they knew their mistress' temper and were aware that not another word would be allowed, that no excuse or entreaty would avail. The countess, too, was in no pleasant mood. She was left here--without a maid. For the first time in her life she would be obliged to wait upon herself, unpack all those huge trunks and bags. How could she do it? She was so cold and so weary, too, and she did not even know which of the numerous bags contained dry shoes and stockings. Was she to pull out everything, when she must do the repacking herself? For now she must certainly go to another house, among civilized people, where she could have servants and not be so utterly alone. Oh, if only she had not come to this Ammergau--it was a horrible place! One would hardly purchase the salvation of the world at the cost of such an evening. It was terrible to be in this situation--and without a maid!

And, as trivial things find even the loftiest women fainthearted because they are matters of nerve, and not of character, the lady who had just confronted her servants so haughtily sank down on the bed again and wept like a child.

Some one tapped lightly on the door of the workshop. The countess opened it, and the short, stout sister timidly entered.

"Pardon me, Your Highness, we have just heard that you have discharged your maid and courier, so I wanted to ask whether my sister or I could be of any service? Perhaps we might unpack a little?"

"Thank you--I don't wish to spend the night here and hope that my companion will bring news that he has found other accommodations. I will pay whatever you ask, but I can't possibly stay. Ask your father what he charges, I'll give whatever you wish--only let me go."

The old man was summoned.

"Why certainly, Countess, you can be entirely at ease on that score; if you don't like staying with us, that need not trouble you. You will have nothing to pay--only you must be quick or you will find no lodgings, they are very hard to get now."

"Yes, but you must have some compensation. Just tell me what I am to give."

"Nothing, Countess. We do not receive payment for what is not eaten!" replied Andreas Gross with such impressive firmness that the lady looked at him in astonishment. "The Ammergau people do not make a business of renting lodgings, Countess; that is done only by the foreign speculators who wish to make a great deal of money at this time, and alas! bring upon Ammergau the reputation of extortion! We natives of the village do it for the sake of having as many guests witness the play as possible, and are glad if we meet our expenses. We expect nothing more."

The countess suddenly saw the "hang-dog" face in a very different light! It must have been the dusk which had deceived her. She now thought it an intellectual and noble one, nay the wrinkled countenance, the long grey locks, and clear, penetrating eyes had an aspect of patriarchal dignity. She suddenly realized that these people must have had the masks which their characters require bestowed by nature, not painted with rouge, and thus the traits of the past unconsciously became impressed upon the features. In the same way, among professional actors, the performer who takes character roles can easily be distinguished from the lover.

"Do you act too?" she asked with interest.

"I act Dathan, the Jewish trader," he said proudly. "I have been in the Play sixty years, for when I was a child three years old I sat in Eve's lap in the tableaux." The countess could not repress a smile and old Andreas' face also brightened.

The little girl, a daughter of the short, plump woman, peeped through the half open door, gazing with sparkling eyes at the lovely lady.

"Whose child is the little one?" asked the countess, noticing her soft curb and beaming eyes.

"She is my grand-daughter, the child of my daughter, Anna. Her father was a foreigner. He ran away, leaving his wife and two children in poverty. So I took them all three into my house again."

The countess looked at the old man's thin, worn figure, and then at the plump mother and child.

"Who supports them?"

"Oh, we help one another," replied Andreas evasively. "We all work together. My son, the drawing teacher, does a great deal for us, too. We could not manage without him." Then interrupting himself with a startled look, as if he might have been overheard, he added, "but I ought not to have said that--he would be very angry if he knew."

"You appear to be a little afraid of your son," said the countess.

"Yes, yes--he is strict, very strict and proud, but a good son."

The old man's eyes sparkled with love and pride.

"Where is he?" asked the countess eagerly.

"Oh, he never allows strangers to see him if he can avoid it."

"Does he act, too?"

"No; he arranges the tableaux, and it needs the ability of a field marshal, for he is obliged to command two or three hundred people, and he keeps them together and they obey him as though he was a general."

"He must be a very interesting person."

At that moment the prince's step was heard in the sitting-room.

"May I come in?"

"Yes, Prince."

He entered, dripping with rain.

"I found nothing except one little room for myself, in a hut even worse than this. All the large houses are filled to overflowing. Satan himself brought us among these confounded peasants!" he said angrily in French.

"Don't speak so," replied the countess earnestly in the same language. "They are saints." The little girl whispered to her mother.

"Please excuse me, Sir; but my child understands French and has just told me that you could get no room for the lady," said Andreas' daughter timidly. "I know where there is one in a very pretty house near by. I will run over as quickly as I can and see if it is still vacant. If you could secure it you would find it much better than ours." She hurried towards the door.

"Stop, woman," called the prince, "you cannot possibly go out; the rain is pouring in torrents, and another shower is rising."

"Yes, stay," cried the countess, "wait till the storm is over."

"Oh, no! lodgings are being taken every minute, we must not lose an instant." The next moment she threw a shawl over her head and left the house. She was just running past the low window--a vivid flash of lightning illumined the room, making the little bent figure stand forth like a silhouette. A peal of thunder quickly followed.

"The storm is just over us," said the prince with kindly anxiety. "We ought not to have let her go."

"Oh, it is of no consequence," said the old man smiling, "she is glad to do it."

"Tell me about these strange people," the prince began, but the countess motioned to him that the child understood French. He looked at her with a comical expression as if he wanted to say: "These are queer 'natives' who give their children so good an education."

The countess went to the window, gazing uneasily at the raging storm. A feeling of self-reproach stole into her heart for having let the kind creature go out amid this uproar of the elements. Especially when these people would take no compensation and therefore lost a profit, if another lodging was found.

It was her loss, and yet she showed this cheerful alacrity.

The little party had now entered the living room. The countess sat on the window sill, while flash after flash of lightning blazed, and peal after peal crashed from the sky. She no longer thought of herself, only of the poor woman outside. The little girl wept softly over her poor mother's exposure to the storm, and slipped to the door to wait for her. The prince, shivering, sat on the bench by the stove. Gross, noticing it, put on more fuel "that the gentleman might dry himself." A bright fire was soon crackling in the huge green stove, the main support of the sunken ceiling.

"Pray charge the fuel to me," said the prince, ashamed.

The old man smiled.

"How you gentle-folks want to pay for everything. We should have needed a fire ourselves." With these words he left the room. The thin sister now thought it desirable not to disturb the strangers and also went out.

"Tell me, Countess," the prince began, leaning comfortably against the warm stove, "may I perfume this, by no means agreeable, atmosphere with a cigarette?"

"Certainly, I had forgotten that there were such things as cigarettes in the world."

"So it seems to me," said the prince, coolly. "Tell me, _chere amie_, now that you have duly enjoyed all the tremors of this romantic situation, how should you like a cup of tea?"

"Tea?" said the countess, looking at him as if just roused from a dream, "tea!"

"Yes, tea," persisted the prince. "My poor friend, you must have lived an eternity in this one hour among these 'savages' to have already lost the memory of one of the best products of civilization."

"Tea," repeated the countess, who now realized her exhaustion, "that would be refreshing, but I don't know how to get it, I sent the maid away."

"Yes, I met the dismissed couple in a state of utter despair. And I can imagine that my worshipped Countess Madeleine--the most pampered and spoiled of all the children of fortune and the fashionable world--does not know how to help herself. I am by no means sorry, for I shall profit by it. I can now pose as a kind Providence. What good luck for a lover! is it not? So permit me to supply the maid's place--so far as this is _practicable_. I have tea with me and my valet whom, thank Heaven, I was not obliged to send away, is waiting your order to serve it."

"How kind you are, Prince. But consider that kitchen filled with flies."

"Oh, you need not feel uncomfortable on that score. You are evidently unused to the mountains. I know these flies, they are different from our city ones and possess a peculiar skill in keeping out of food. Try it for once."

"Yes, but we must first ascertain whether I can get the other room," said the countess, again lapsing into despondency.

"My dearest Countess, does that prevent our taking any refreshment? Don't be so spiritless," said the prince laughing.

"Oh, it's all very well to laugh. The situation is tragical enough, I assure you."

"Tragical enough to pay for the trouble of developing a certain grandeur of soul, but not, in true womanly fashion, to lose all composure."

The prince shook the ashes from his cigarette and went to the door to order the valet to serve the tea. When he returned, the countess suddenly came to meet him, held out her hand, and said with a bewitching smile:

"Prince, you are charming to-day, and I am unbearable. I thank you for the patience you have shown."

"Madeleine," he replied, controlling his emotion, "if I did not know your kind heart, I should believe you a Circe, who delighted in driving men mad. Were it not for my cold, sober reason, which you always emphasize, I should now mistake for love the feeling which makes you meet me so graciously, and thus expose myself to disappointment. But reason plainly shows that it is merely the gratitude of a kind heart for a trivial service rendered in an unpleasant situation, and I am too proud to do, in earnest, what I just said in jest--profit by the opportunity."

The countess, chilled and ashamed, drew her hand back. There spoke the dry, prosaic, commonplace man. Had he _now_ understood how to profit by her mood when, in her helpless condition, he appeared as a deliverer in the hour of need, who knows what might have happened! But this was precisely what he disdained. The experienced man of the world knew women well enough to be perfectly aware how easily one may be won in a moment of nervous depression, desperate perplexity and helplessness, yet though ever ready to enjoy every piquant situation, nevertheless or perhaps for that very reason he was too proud to owe to an accident of this kind the woman whom he had chosen for the companion of his life. The countess felt this and was secretly glad that he had spared her and himself a disappointment.

"That is the way with women," he said softly, gazing at her with an almost compassionate expression. "For the mess of pottage of an agreeable situation, they will sell the birthright of their most sacred feelings."

"That is a solemn, bitter truth, such as I am not accustomed to hear from your lips, Prince. But however deep may be the gulf of realism whence you have drawn this experience, you shall not find it confirmed in me."

"That is, you will punish me henceforth by your coldness, while you know perfectly well that it was the sincerity of my regard for you which prompted my act, Countess, that vengeance would be unworthy; a woman like you ought not to sink to the petty sensitiveness of ordinary feminine vanity."

"Oh, Prince, you are always right, and, believe me, if I carried my heart in my _head_ instead of in my breast, that is, if we could love with the _intellect_, I should have been yours long ago, but alas, my friend, it is so _far_ from the head to the heart."

The Prince lighted another cigarette. No one could detect what was passing in his mind. "So much the worse for me!" he said coldly, shrugging his shoulders.

At that moment a sheet of flame filled the room, and the crashing thunder which followed sounded as if the ceiling had fallen and buried everything under it. The countess seemed bewildered.

"Mother, mother!" shrieked a voice outside. People gathered in the street, voices were heard, shouts, hurrying footsteps and the weeping of the little girl. The prince sprang out of the window, the countess regained her consciousness--of what?

"Some one has been struck by lightning." She hastened out.

A senseless figure was brought in and laid on the bench in the entry. It was the kind-hearted little creature whom her caprice had sent into the storm--perhaps to her death. There she lay silent and pale, with closed lids; her hands were cold her features sharp and rigid like those of a corpse, but her heart still throbbed under her drenched gown. The countess asked the prince to bring cologne and smelling salts from her satchel and skillfully applied the remedies; the prince helped her rub the arteries while she strove to restore consciousness with the sharp essences. Meanwhile the other sister soothed the weeping child. Andreas Gross poured a few drops of some liquid from a dusty flask into the sufferer's mouth, saying quietly, "You must not be so much frightened, I am something of a doctor; it is only a severe fainting fit. The other is worse."

"Were two persons struck?" asked the countess in horror.

"Yes, one of the musicians, the first violin."

A sudden thought darted through the countess' brain, and a feeling of dread stole over her as if there was in Ammergau a beloved life for which she must tremble. Yet she knew no one.

"Please bring a shawl from my room," she said to the prince, and when he had gone, she asked quickly: "Tell me, is the musician tall?"

"Oh, yes."

"Has he long black hair?"

"No, he is fair," replied the old man.

The countess, with a feeling of relief, remained silent, the prince returned. The sick woman opened her eyes and a faint moan escaped her lips.

"Here will be a fine scene," thought the prince. "Plenty of capital can be made out of such a situation. My lovely friend will outweigh every tear with a gold coin."

After a short time the woman regained sufficient consciousness to realize her surroundings and tried to lift her feet from the bench. "Oh, Countess, you will tax yourself too much. Please go in, there is a strong draught here."

"Yes, but you must come with me," said the countess, "try whether you can use your feet."

It was vain, she tried to take a step, but her feet refused to obey her will.

"Alas!" cried the countess deeply moved. "She is paralyzed--and it is my fault."

Anna gently took her hand and raised it to her lips. "Pray don't distress yourself, Countess, it will pass away. I am only sorry that I have caused you such a fright." She tried to smile, the ugly face looked actually beautiful at that moment, and the tones of her voice, whose tremor she strove to conceal, was so touching as she tried to comfort and soothe the self-reproach of the woman who had caused the misfortune that tears filled the countess' eyes.

"How wise she is," said the prince, marvelling at such delicacy and feeling.

"Come," said the countess, "we must get her into the warm rooms."

Andreas Gross, and at a sign from the prince, the valet, carried the sick woman in and laid her on the bench by the stove. The countess held her icy hand, while tears streamed steadily down the sufferer's cheeks.

"Do you feel any pain?" asked the lady anxiously.

"No, oh no--but I can't help weeping because the Countess is so kind to me--I am in no pain--no indeed!" She smiled again, the touching smile which seeks to console others.

"Yes, yes," said the old man, "you need not be troubled, she will be well to-morrow."

The child laid her head lovingly on her mother's breast, a singularly peaceful atmosphere pervaded the room, a modest dignity marked the bearing of the poor peasants. The prince and the countess also sat in thoughtful silence. Suddenly the sick woman started up, "Oh dear, I almost forget the main thing. The lady can have the lodgings. Two very handsome rooms and excellent attendance, but the countess must go at once as soon as the shower is over. They will be kept only an hour. More people will arrive at ten."

"I thank you," said the countess with a strange expression.

"Oh, there is no need. I am only glad I secured the rooms, and that the countess can have attendance," replied the sick woman joyously. "I shall soon be better, then I'll show the way."

"I thank you," repeated the countess earnestly. "I do not want the rooms, I shall _stay here_."

"What are you going to do?" asked the prince in amazement.

"Yes, I am ashamed that I was so foolish this evening. Will you keep me, you kind people, after I have done you so much injustice, and caused you such harm."

"Oh! you must consult your own pleasure. We shall be glad to have you stay with us, but we shall take no offence, if it would be more pleasant for you elsewhere," said the old man with unruffled kindness.

"Then I will stay."

"That is a good decision, Countess," said the prince. "You always do what is right." He beckoned to Sephi, the thin sister, and whispered a few words. She vanished in the countess' room, returning in a short time with dry shoes and stockings, which she had found in one of the travelling satchels. The prince went to the window and stood there with his back turned to the room. "We must do the best that opportunity permits," he said energetically. "I beg your highness to let this lady change your shoes and stockings. I am answerable for your health, not only to myself, but to society."

The countess submitted to the prince's arrangement, and the little ice-cold feet slid comfortably into the dry coverings, which Sephi had warmed at the stove. She now felt as if she was among human beings and gradually became more at ease. After Sephi had left the room she walked proudly up to the prince in her dry slippers, and said: "Come, Prince, let us pace to and fro, that our chilled blood may circulate once more."

The prince gracefully offered his arm and led her up and down the long work-shop. Madeleine was bewitching at that moment, and the grateful expression of her animated face suited her to a charm.

"I must go," he thought, "or I shall be led into committing some folly which will spoil all my chances with her."

CHAPTER III.

YOUNG AMMERGAU.

The valet served the tea. The prince had provided for everything, remembered everything. He had even brought English biscuits.

The little repast exerted a very cheering influence upon the depressed spirits of the countess. But she took the first cup to the invalid who, revived by the unaccustomed stimulant, rose at once, imagining that a miracle had been wrought, for she could walk again. The Gross family now left the room. The prince and the countess sipped their tea in silence. What were they to say when the valet, who always accompanied his master on his journeys, understood all the languages which the countess spoke fluently?

The prince was grave and thoughtful. After they had drank the tea, he kissed her hand. "Let me go now--we must both have rest, you for your nerves and I for my feelings. I wish you a good night's sleep."

"Prince, I can say that you have been infinitely charming to-day, and have risen much in my esteem."

"I am glad to hear it, Countess, though a trifle depressed by the consciousness that I owe this favor to a cup of tea and a pair of dry slippers," replied the prince with apparent composure. Then he took his hat and left the room.

And this is love? thought the countess, shrugging her shoulders. What was she to do? She did not feel at all inclined to sleep. People are never more disposed to chat than after hardships successfully endured. She had had her tea, had been warmed, served, and tended. For the first time since her arrival she was comfortable, and now she must go to bed. At ten o'clock in the evening, the hour when she usually drove from the theatre to some evening entertainment.

The prince had gone and the Gross family came in to ask if she wanted anything more.

"No, but you are ready to go to bed, and I ought to return to my room, should I not?" replied the countess.

Just at that moment the door was flung open and a head like the bronze cast of the bust of a Roman emperor appeared. A face which in truth seemed as if carved from bronze, keen eagle eyes, a nose slightly hooked, an imperious, delicately moulded brow, short hair combed upward, and an expression of bitter, sad, but irresistible energy on the compressed lips. As the quick eyes perceived the countess, the head was drawn back with the speed of lightning. But old Gross, proud of his son, called him back.

"Come in, come in and be presented to this lady, people don't run away so."

The young man, somewhat annoyed, returned.

"My son, Ludwig, principal of the drawing school," said old Gross. Ludwig's artist eyes glided over the countess; she felt the glance of the connoisseur, knew, that he could appreciate her beauty. What a delight to see herself, among these simple folk, suddenly reflected in an artist's eyes and find that the picture came back beautiful. How happened so exquisite a crystal, which can be polished only in the workshops of the highest education and art, to be in such surroundings? The countess noted with ever increasing amazement the striking face and the proud poise of the head on the small, compact, yet classically formed figure. She knew at the first moment that this was a man in the true sense of the word, and she gave him her hand as though greeting an old acquaintance from the kingdom of the ideal. It seemed as if she must ask: "How do you come here?"

Ludwig Gross read the question on her lips. He possessed the vision from which even the thoughts must be guarded, or he would guess them.

"I must ask your pardon for disturbing you. I have just come from the meeting and only wanted to see my sister. I heard she was ill."

"Oh, I feel quite well again," the latter answered.

"Yes," said the countess in a somewhat embarrassed tone, "you will be vexed with the intruder who has brought so much anxiety and alarm into your house? I reproach myself for being so foolish as to have wanted another lodging, but at first I thought that the ceiling would fall upon me, and I was afraid."

"Oh, I understand that perfectly when persons are not accustomed to low rooms. It was difficult for me to become used to them again when I returned from Munich."

"You were at the Academy?"

"Yes, Countess."

"Will you not take off your wet coat and sit down?"

"I should not like to disturb you, Countess."

"But you won't disturb me at all; come, let us have a little chat."

Ludwig Gross laid his hat and overcoat aside, took a chair, and sat down opposite to the lady. Just at that moment a carriage drove up. The strangers who had engaged the rooms refused to the prince had arrived, and the family hastened out to receive and help them. The countess and Ludwig were left alone.

"What were you discussing at so late an hour?" asked the countess.

"Dore sent us this evening two engravings of his two Passion pictures; he is interested in our play, so we were obliged to discuss the best way of expressing our gratitude and to decide upon the place where they shall be hung. There is no time for such consultations during the day."

"Are you familiar with all of Dore's pictures?"

"Certainly, Countess."

"And do you like him?"

"I admire him. I do not agree with him in every particular, but he is a genius, and genius has a right to forgiveness for faults which mediocrity should never venture to commit, and indeed never will."

"Very true," replied the lady.

"I think," Ludwig Gross continued, "that he resembles Hamerling. There is kinship between the two men. Hamerling, too, repels us here and there, but with him, as with Dore, every line and every stroke flashes with that electric spark which belongs only to the genuine work of art."

His companion gazed at him in amazement.

"You have read Hamerling?"

"Certainly. Who is not familiar with his 'Ahasuerus?'"[3]

"I, for instance," she replied with a faint blush.

"Oh, Countess, you must read it. There is a vigor, an acerbity, the repressed anguish and wrath of a noble nature against the pitifulness of mankind, which must impress every one upon whose soul the questions of life have ever cast their shadows, though I know not whether this is the case with you."

"More than is perhaps supposed," she answered, drawing a long breath. "We are all pessimists, but Hamerling must be a stronger one than is well for a poet."

"That is not quite correct," replied Ludwig. "He is a pessimist just so far as accords with the poesy of our age. Did not Auerbach once say: 'Pessimism is the grief of the world, which has no more tears!' This applies to Hamerling, also. His poetry has that bitter flavor, which is required by a generation that has passed the stage when sweets please the palate and tears relieve the heart."

"Your words are very true. But how do you explain--it would be interesting to hear from you--how do you explain, in this mood of the times, the attraction which draws such throngs to the Passion Play?"

Ludwig Gross leaned back in his chair, and his stern brow relaxed under the bright influence of a beautiful thought.

"One extreme, as is well known, follows another. The human heart will always long for tears, and the world's tearless anguish will therefore yield to a gentler mood. I think that the rush to our simple play is a symptom of this change. People come here to learn to weep once more."

The countess rested her clasped hands on the table and gazed long and earnestly at Ludwig Gross. Her whole nature was kindled, her eyes lingered admiringly upon the modest little man, who did not seem at all conscious of his own superiority. "To learn to _weep_!" she repeated, nodding gently. "Yes, we might all need that. But do you believe we shall learn it here?"

Ludwig Gross gazed at her smiling. "You will not ask that question at this hour on the evening of the day after tomorrow."

He seemed to her a physician who possessed a remedy which he knows _cannot_ fail. And she began to trust him like a physician.

"May I be perfectly frank?" she asked in a winning tone.

"I beg that you will be so, Countess."

"I am surprised to find a man like you here. I had not supposed there were such people in the village. But you were away a long time, you are probably no longer a representative citizen of Ammergau?"

Ludwig Gross raised his head proudly. "Certainly I am, Countess. If there was ever a true citizen of Ammergau, I am one. Learn to know us better, and you will soon be convinced that we are all of one mind. Though one has perhaps learned more than another, that is a mere accident; the same purpose, the same idea, unites us all."

"But what binds men of such talent to this remote village? Are you married?"

The bitter expression around the artist's mouth deepened as though cut by some invisible instrument. "No, Countess, my circumstances do not permit it; I have renounced this happiness."

The lady perceived that she had touched a sensitive spot, but she desired to probe the wound to learn whether it might be healed. "Is your salary so small that you could not support a family?"

"If I wish to aid my own family, and that is certainly my first duty, I cannot found a home."

"How is that possible. Does so rich a community pay its teacher so poorly?"

"It does as well as it can, Countess. It has fixed a salary of twelve hundred marks for my position; that is all that can be expected."

"For this place, yes. But if you were in Munich, you would easily obtain twice or three times as much."

"Even five times," answered Ludwig, smiling. "I had offers from two art-industrial institutes, one of which promised a salary of four thousand, the other of six thousand marks per annum. But that did not matter when the most sacred duties to my home were concerned."

"But these are superhuman sacrifices. Who can expect you to banish yourself here and resign everything which the world outside would lavish upon you in the richest measure? Everyone must consider himself first."

"Why, Countess, Ammergau would die out if everybody was of that opinion."

"Oh! let those remain who are suited to the place, who have learned and can do nothing more. But men of talent and education, like you, who can claim something better, belong outside."

"On the contrary, Countess, they belong here," Ludwig eagerly answered. "What would become of the Passion Play if all who have learned and can do something should go away, and only the uneducated and the ignorant remain? Do you suppose that there are not a number of people here, who, according to your ideas, would have deserved 'a better fate?' We have enough of them, but go among us and learn whether any one complains. If he should, he would be unworthy the name of a son of Ammergau!" He paused a moment, his bronzed face grew darker. "Do you imagine," he added, "that we could perform such a work, perform it in a manner which, in some degree, fulfills the aesthetic demand of modern taste, without possessing, in our midst, men of intellect and culture? It is bad enough that necessity compels many a talented native of Ammergau to seek his fortune outside, but the man to whom his home still gives even a bit of _bread_ must be content with it, and without thinking of what he might have gained outside, devote his powers to the ideal interests of his fellow citizens."

"That is a grand and noble thought, but I don't understand why you speak as if the people of Ammergau were so poor. What becomes of the vast sums gained by the Passion Play?"

Ludwig Gross smiled bitterly. "I expected that question, it comes from all sides. The Passion Play does not enrich individuals, for the few hundred marks, more or less, which each of the six hundred actors receives, do not cover the deficit of all the work which the people must neglect. The revenue is partly consumed by the expenses, partly used for the common benefit, for schools and teachers. The principal sums are swallowed by the Leine and the Ammer! The ravages of these malicious mountain streams require means which our community could never raise, save for the receipts of the Passion Play, and even these are barely sufficient for the most needful outlay."

"Is it possible? Those little streams!" cried the countess.

"Would flood all Ammergau," Gross answered, "if we did not constantly labor to prevent it. We should be a poor, stunted people, worn down by fever, our whole mountain valley would be a desolate swamp. The Passion Play alone saves us from destruction--the Christ who once ruled the waves actually holds back from us the destroying element which would gradually devour land and people. But, for that very reason, the individual has learned here, as perhaps nowhere else in the world, to live and sacrifice himself for the community! The community is comprised to us in the idea of the Passion Play. We know that our existence depends upon it, even our intellectual life, for it protects us from the savagery into which a people continually struggling with want and need so easily lapses. It raises us above the common herd, gives even the poorest man an innate dignity and self-respect, which never suffer him to sink to base excesses."

"I understand that," the countess answered.

"Then can you wonder that not one of us hesitates to devote property, life, and every power of his soul to this work of saving our home, our poor, oppressed home, ever forced to straggle for its very existence?"

"What a man!" the countess involuntarily exclaimed aloud. Ludwig Gross had folded his arms across his breast, as if to restrain the pulsations of his throbbing heart. His whole being thrilled with the deepest, noblest emotions. He rose and took his hat, like a person whose principle it is to shut every emotion within his own bosom, and when a mighty one overpowers him, to hide himself that he may also hide the feeling.

"No," cried the countess, "you must not leave me so, you rare, noble-hearted man. You have just done me the greatest service which can be rendered. You have made my heart leap with joy at the discovery of a _genuine_ human being. Ah! it is a cordial in this world of conventional masks! Give me your hand! I am beginning to understand why Providence sent me here. That must indeed be a great cause which rears such men and binds such powers in its service."

Ludwig Gross once more stood calm and quiet before her. "I thank you, Countess, in the name of the cause for which I live and die."

"And, in the name of that cause, which I do not understand, yet dimly apprehend, I beg you, let us be friends. Will you? Clasp hands upon it."

A kindly expression flitted over the grave man's iron countenance, and he warmly grasped the little hand.

"With all my heart, Countess."

She held the small, slender artist-hand in a close clasp, mournfully reading in the calm features of the stern, noble face the story of bitter suffering and sacrifice graven upon it.

CHAPTER IV.

EXPELLED FROM THE PLAY.

The storm had spent its fury, the winds sung themselves softly to sleep, a friendly face looked down between the dispersing clouds and cast its mild light upon the water, now gradually flowing away. The swollen brooks rolled like molten silver--cold, glittering veins of the giant mountain body, whose crown of snow bestowed by the tempest glimmered with argent lustre in the pallid moonbeams. A breeze, chill and strengthening as the icy breath of eternity, sweeping from the white glaciers, entered the little window against which the countess was dreamily leaning.

Higher and higher rose the moon, more and more transfigured and transparent became the mountains, as if they were no longer compact masses, only the spiritual image of themselves as it may have hovered before the divine creative mind, ere He gave them material form.

The village lay silent before her, and silence pervaded all nature. Yet to the countess it seemed as if it were the stillness which precedes a great, decisive word.

"What hast Thou to say to me, Viewless One? Sacred stillness, what dost thou promise? Will the moment come when I shall understand Thy language, infinite Spirit? Or wilt Thou only half do Thy work in me--only awake the feeling that Thou art near me, speaking to me, merely to let me die of longing for the word I have failed to comprehend.

"Woe betide me, if it is so! And yet--wherefore hast Thou implanted in my heart this longing, this inexplicable yearning, which _nothing_ stills, no earthly advantage, neither the splendor and grandeur Thou hast given me, nor the art and science which Thou didst endow me with capacity to appreciate. On, on, strives my thirsting soul toward the germ of all existence, toward _Thee_. Fain would I behold Thy face, though the fiery vision should consume me!

"Source of wisdom, no knowledge gives Thee to me; source of love, no love can supply Thy place. I have sought Thee in the temples of beauty, but found Thee not; in the shining spheres of thought, but in vain; in the love of human beings, but no matter how many hearts opened to me, I flung them aside as worthless rubbish, for Thou wert not in them! When will the moment come that Thou wilt appear before me in some noble form suited to Thy Majesty, and tell the sinner that her dim longing, into whatever errors it may have led her, yet obtained for her the boon of beholding Thy face?"

Burning tears glittered in the moonlight in the countess' large, beseeching eyes and, mastered by an inexplicable feeling, she sank on her knees at the little window, stretching her clasped hands fervently towards the shining orb, floating in her mild beauty and effulgence above the conquered, flying clouds. The mountain opposite towered like a spectral form in the moonlit atmosphere, the peak over which she had driven that day, where she had seen that wondrous apparition, that man with the grief of the universe in his gaze! What manner of man must he have been whose glance, in a single moment, awed the person upon whom it fell as if some higher power had given a look of admiration? Why had it rested upon her with such strange reproach, as if saying: "You, too, are a child of the world, like many who come here, unworthy of salvation." Or was he angry with her because she had disturbed him in his reveries? Yet why did he fix his eyes so intently upon hers, that neither could avert them from the other? And all this happened in a single moment--but a moment worthy of being held in remembrance throughout an eternity. Who could he be? Would she see him again? Yes, for in that meeting there was something far beyond mere accident.

An incomprehensible restlessness seized upon her, a longing to solve the enigma, once more behold that face, that wonderful face whose like she had never seen before!

The horse was stamping in its stall, but she did not heed it, the thin candles had burned down and gone out long ago, the worm was gnawing the ancient wainscoting, the clock in the church-steeple struck twelve. A dog howled in the distance, one of the children in the workshop was disturbed by the nightmare, it cried out in its sleep. Usually such nocturnal sounds would have greatly irritated the countess' nerves. Now she had no ears for them, before her lay the whole grand expanse of mountain scenery, bathed in the moonlight, naked as a beautiful body just risen from a glittering flood! And she was seized with an eager longing to throw herself upon the bosom of this noble body, that she, too, might be irradiated with light, steeped in its moist glow and cool in the pure, icy atmosphere emanating from it, her fevered blood, the vague yearning which thrilled her pulses. She hurriedly seized her hat and cloak and stepped noiselessly into the workshop. What a picture of poverty! The sisters and the little girl were lying on the floor upon sacks of straw, the boy was asleep on the "couch," and the old man dozed sitting erect in an antique arm-chair, with his feet on a stool.

"How relative everything is," thought the countess. "To these people even so poor a bed as mine in yonder room is a forbidden luxury, which it would be sinful extravagance to desire. And we, amid our rustling curtains, on our silken cushions, resting on soft down, in rooms illuminated with the magical glow of lamps which pour a flood of roseate light on limbs stretched in comfortable repose, while the bronze angels which support the mirror seem to laugh gaily at each other, and from the toilet table intoxicating perfumes send forth their sweet poison, to conjure up a tropical world of blossom before the drowsy senses! While these sleeping-places here! On the bare floor and straw, lighted by the cold glimmer of the moon, shining through uncurtained windows and making the slumberers' lids quiver restlessly. Not even undressed, cramped by their coarse, tight garments, their weary limbs move uneasily on the hard beds! And this atmosphere! Five human beings in the low room and the soot from the lamp which has been smoking all the evening still filling the air. What lives! What contrasts! Yet these people are content and do not complain of their hard fate! Nay, they even disdain a favorable opportunity of improving it by legitimate gains. Not one desires more than is customary and usual. What pride, what grandeur of self-sacrifice this requires! _What gives them this power?_"

Old Andreas woke and gazed with an almost terrified expression at the beautiful figure of the countess, standing thoughtfully among the sleepers. Starting up, he asked what she desired.

"Will you go to walk with me, Herr Gross?"

The old man rubbed his eyes to convince himself that he had slept so long that the sun was shining into his room. But no. "It is the moon which is so bright," he said to the countess.

"Why, of course, that is why I want to go out!" she repeated. The old man quickly seized his hat from the chamois horn and stood ready to attend her. "Are you not tired?" she said hesitatingly. "You have not been in bed."

"Oh, that is of no consequence!" was his ready answer. "During the Passion it is always so."

The countess shook her head; she knew that the people here said simply "the Passion," but she could not understand why, during "the Passion," they should neither expect a bed nor the most trivial comfort or why, for the sake of "the Passion," they should endure without a murmur, and without succumbing, every exertion and deprivation. She saw in the broad light which filled the room the old man's bright, keen eyes. "No, these Ammergau people know no fatigue, their task supports them!"

The countess left the room with him. "Ah!" an involuntary exclamation of delight escaped her lips as she emerged into the splendor of the brilliant moonlight, and eagerly inhaled the air which blew cold and strong, yet closed softly around her, strengthening and supporting her like the waves of the sea. And, amid these shimmering, floating mists, this "phosphorescence" of the earth, these waves of melting outlines, softly dissolving shapes--the Kofel towered solitary in sharp relief, like a vast reef of rocks, and on its summit glittered the metal-bound cross, the symbol of Ammergau, sending its beams far and wide in the light of the full moon like the lantern of a lighthouse.

Madeleine von Wildenau stretched out her arms, throwing back her cloak, that her whole form might bathe in the pure element.

"Oh, wash away all earthly dust and earthly ballast, ye surging billows: steal, purify me in thy chaste majesty, queen of the world, heaven-born air of the heights!" Was it possible that hitherto she had been able to live without this bliss, _had_ she lived? No, no, she had not! "Ammergau, thou art the soil I have sought! Thy miracles are beginning!" cried an exultant voice in the soul of the woman so suddenly released from the toils of weary desolation.

Without exchanging many words--for the old man was full of delicacy, and perceived what was passing in the countess' soul--they involuntarily walked in the direction of the Kofel; only when they were passing the house of a prominent actor in the Passion Play, he often thought it his duty to call his companion's attention to it.

Their way now lead them past a small dilapidated tavern which had but two windows in the front. Here the Roman Procurator lay on his bed of straw, enjoying his well-earned night's rest. It was the house of Pilate! Nowhere was any window closed with shutters--there were no thieves in Ammergau! The moon was reflected from every window-pane. They turned into the main street of the village, where the Ammer flowed in its broad, deep channel like a Venetian lagoon. The stately, picturesquely situated houses threw sharp shadows on the water. Here the ancient, venerable "star," whose landlord was one of the musicians, thrust its capacious bow-window into the street; yonder a foot-bridge led to the house of Caiaphas, a handsome building, richly adorned with frescoes representing scenes from ancient history; farther on Judas was sleeping the sleep of the just, rejoicing in the consciousness of having betrayed his master so often! On the other side Mary rested under the richly carved gable with the ancient design of the clover leaf, the symbol of the Trinity, and directly opposite, the milk-wart nodded and swayed on the wall of the churchyard!

A strange feeling stole over the countess as she stood among these consecrated sleepers. As the fragrance of the sleeping flowers floats over a garden at night, the sorrowful spirit of the story of the Passion seemed to rise from these humble resting places, and the pilgrim through the silent village was stirred as though she was walking through the streets of Jerusalem. A street turned to the left between gardens surrounded by fences and shaded by tall, ancient trees. The shadows of the branches, tossed by the wind, flickered and danced with magical grace. "That is the way to the dwelling of the Christ," said old Gross, in a subdued, reverential tone.

The countess involuntarily started. "The Christ," she repeated thoughtfully, pausing. "Can the house be seen?"

"No, not from here. The house is like himself, not very easy to find."

"Is he so inaccessible?" asked the countess, glancing down the mysterious street again as they passed.

"Oh yes," replied Andreas. "He is a peculiar man. It is difficult to approach him. He is a friend of my son, but has little to do with the rest of us."

"But you associate with him?"

"Very little in daily life; he goes nowhere, not even to the ale-house. But in the Passion I am associated with him. I always nail him to the cross," added the old man proudly. "No one is permitted to do that except myself."

The countess listened with eager interest. The brief description had roused her curiosity to the utmost. "How do you do it?" she asked, to keep him to the same subject.

"I cannot explain that to you, but a great deal depends upon having everything exactly right, for, you know, the least mistake might cost him his life."

"How?"

"Why, surely you can understand. Just think, the man is obliged to hang on the cross for twenty minutes. During this time the blood cannot circulate, and he always risks an attack of palpitation of the heart. One incautious movement in the descent from the cross, which should cause the blood to flow back too quickly to the heart, might cause his death."

"That is terrible!" cried the countess in horror. "And does he know it?"

"Why, certainly."

"And _still_ does it!"

Here Andreas gazed at the great lady with a compassionate smile, as if he wanted to say: "How little you understand, that you can ask such a question!"

They walked on silently. The countess was thinking: "What kind of man must this Christ be?" and while thus pondering and striving to form some idea of him, it suddenly flashed upon her that there was but _one_ face which could belong to this man, the face she had seen gazing down upon her from the mountain, as if from some other world. Like a blaze of lightning the thought flamed through her soul. "_That_ must have been he!"

At that moment Gross made a circuit around a gloomy house that had a neglected, tangled garden.

"Who lives there?" asked the countess in surprise, following the old man, who was now walking much faster.

"Oh," he answered sorrowfully, "that is a sad place! There is an unhappy girl there, who sobs and moans all night long so that people hear her outside. I wanted to spare you, Countess."

They had now reached the end of the village and were walking, still along the bank of the Ammer, toward a large dam over which the mountain stream, swollen by the rain, plunged in mad, foaming waves. The spray gleamed dazzlingly white in the moon-rays, the massive beams trembled under the pressure of the unchained volume of water, groaning and creaking with a sinister noise amid the thundering roar until it sounded like the wails of the dying amid the din of battle. The countess shuddered at the demoniac power of this spectacle. High above the steep fall a narrow plank led from one bank of the stream to the other, vibrating constantly with the shock of the falling water. Madeleine's brain whirled at the thought of being compelled to cross it. "The timbers are groaning," she said, pausing. "Does not it sound like a human voice?"

The old man listened. "By heaven! one would suppose so."

"It _is_ a human voice--there--hark--some one is weeping--moaning."

The dam was in the full radiance of the moonlight, the countess and her companion stood concealed by a dense clump of willows, so that they could see without being seen.

Suddenly--what was that? The old man made the sign of the cross. "Heavenly Father, it is she!"

A female figure was gliding across the plank. Like the ruddy glow of flame, mingled with the bluish hue of the moonlight, a mass of red-gold hair gleamed around her head and fluttered in the wind. The beautiful face was ghost-like in its pallor, the eyes were fixed, the very embodiment of despair. Her upper garment hung in tatters about her softly-moulded shoulders, and she held her clasped hands uplifted, not like one who prays, but one who fain would pray, yet cannot. Then with the firm poise of a person seeking death, she walked to the middle of the swaying plank, where the water was deepest, the fall most steep. There she prepared to take the fatal plunge. The countess shrieked aloud and Gross shouted:

"Josepha! Josepha! May God forgive you. Remember your old mother!"

The girl uttered a piercing cry, covered her face with both hands, and flung herself prone on the narrow plank.

But, with the speed of a youth, the old man was already on the bridge, raising the girl. "Shame on you to wish to do such a thing! We must submit to our fate! Now take care that you don't make a mis-step or I, an old man, must leap into the cold water to drag you out again, and you know how much I suffer from the rheumatism." He spoke in low, kindly tones, and the countess secretly admired his shrewdness and tenderness. She watched them breathlessly as the girl, at these words, tried not to slip in order to spare him. But now, as she did not _wish_ to fall, she moved with uncertain, stumbling feet, where she had just seemed to fly. But Andreas Gross led her firmly and kindly. The countess' heart throbbed heavily till they reached the end and, in the utmost anxiety she stretched out her arms to them from the distance. Thank Heaven, there they are! The lady caught the girl by the hand and dragged her on the shore, where she sank silently, like a stricken animal, at her feet. The countess covered the trembling form with her cloak and said a few comforting words.

"Do you know her?" she asked the old man.

"Of course, it is Josepha Freyer, from the gloomy house yonder."

"Freyer? A relative of the Freyer who played the Christ."

"A cousin; yes."

The old man was about to go to the girl's house to bring her mother.

"No, no," said the countess. "I will care for her. What induced the unfortunate girl to take such a step?"

"She was the Mary Magdalene in the last Passion!" whispered the old man. At the words the girl raised her head and burst into violent sobs.

"My child, what has happened!" asked the countess, gazing admiringly at the charming creature, who was as perfect a picture of the penitent Magdalene as any artist could create.

"Why don't you play the Magdalene _this time_?"

"Don't you know?" asked the girl, amazed that there was any human being still ignorant of her disgrace. "I am not _permitted_ to play now--I am--I have"--she again burst with convulsive sobs and, clasping the countess' knees, cried: "Oh, let me die, I cannot bear it."

"She fell into error," said Gross, in reply to the lady's questioning glance. "A little boy was born last winter. Now she can no longer act, for only those who are pure and without reproach are permitted to take part in the Passion."

"Oh, how harsh!" cried the countess; "And in a land where human beings are so near to nature, and in circumstances where the poor girls are so little guarded."

"Yes, we are aware of that--and Josepha is a heavy loss to us in the play--but these rules have come down to us from our ancestors and must be rigidly maintained. Yet the girl takes it too much to heart, she weeps day and night, so that people never pass the house to avoid hearing her lamentations, and now she wants to kill herself, the foolish lass."

"Oh, it's very well for you to talk, it's very well for you to talk," now burst from the girls lips in accents tremulous with passion. "First, try once what it is to have the whole world point at you. When the Englishmen, and the strangers from all the foreign countries in the world, come and want to see the famous Josepha Freyer, who played in the last Passion, and fairly drag the soul out of your body with their questions about the reason that you no longer act in it. Wait till you have to tell each person the story of your own disgrace, that it may be carried through the whole earth and know that your name is branded wherever men speak of the Passion Play. First try what it is to hide in a corner like a criminal, while they are acting in the Passion, and bragging and giving themselves airs as if they were saints, while thousands upon thousands listen devoutly. Ah, I alone am shut out, and yet I know that _no one_ can act as I do." She drew herself up proudly, and flung the magnificent traditional locks of the Magdalene back on her shoulders. "Just seek such a Magdalene as I was--you will find none. And then to be forced to hear people who are passing ask: 'Why doesn't Josepha Freyer play the Magdalene this year?' And then there are whispers, shrugs, and laughter, some one says, 'then she would suit the character exactly.' And when people pass the house they point at it--it seems as if I could feel it through the walls--and mutter: 'That's where the Penitent lives!' No, I won't bear it. I only waited till there was a heavy storm to make the water deep enough for me to drown myself. And I've been prevented even in this."

"Josepha!" said the countess, deeply moved, "will you go with me--away from Ammergau, to another, a very different world, where you and your disgrace are unknown?"

Josepha gazed at the stranger as if in a dream.

"I believe," the lady added, "that my losing my maid to-day was an act of Providence in your behalf. Will you take her place?"

"Thank heaven!" said old Gross. "Brighter days will dawn for you, Josepha!"

Josepha stood still with her hands clasped, tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Why, do you hesitate to accept my offer?" asked the countess, greatly perplexed.

"Oh, don't be angry with me--I am sincerely grateful; but what do I care for all these things, if I am no longer permitted to act the Magdalene?" burst in unutterable anguish from the very depths of the girl's soul.

"What an ambition!" said the countess to Andreas in astonishment.

"Yes, that is the way with them all here--they would rather lose their lives than a part in the Passion!" he answered in a low tone. "But, child, you could not always play the Magdalene--in ten years you would be too old for it," he said soothingly to the despairing Josepha.

"Oh that's a very different thing--when we have grown grey with honors, we know that we must give it up--but so--" and again she gazed longingly at the beautiful, deep, rushing water, where it would be so cool, so pleasant to rest--which she had vowed to seek, and now could not keep her word.

"Do you love your child, Josepha?" asked Countess Wildenau.

"It died directly after it was born."

"Do you love your mother?"

"No, she was always unkind and harsh to me, and now she has lost her mind."

"Do you love your lover?" the lady persisted.

"Yes--but he is dead! A poacher shot him--he was a forester."

"Then you have no one for whom you care to live?"

"No one!"

"Then come with me and try whether you cannot love me well enough to make it worth while to live for me! Will you?"

"Yes, your Highness, I will try!" replied the girl, fixing her large eyes with an expression of mingled inquiry and admiration upon the countess. A beautiful glow of gratitude and confidence gradually transfigured the grief-worn face: "I think I could do anything for you."

"Come with me then--at once, poor child--I will save you! Your relatives will not object."

"Oh, no! They will be glad to have me go away."

"And your cousin, the--the--" she does not know herself why she hesitates to pronounce the name.

"The Christ-Freyer?" said Josepha finishing the sentence. "Oh! he has not spoken to me for a year, except to say what was absolutely necessary, he cannot get over my having brought disgrace upon his unsullied name. It has made him disgusted with life here and, if it were not for the Christ, he would not stay in Ammergau. He is so severe in such things."

"So _severe!_" the countess repeated, thoughtfully.

The clock in the steeple of the Ammergau church struck two.

"It is late," said the countess, "the poor thing needs rest." She wrapped her own cloak around the girl.

"Come, lonely heart, I will warm you."

She turned once more to drink in the loveliness of the exquisite scene.

"Night of miracle, I thank thee."

CHAPTER V.

MODERN PILGRIMS.

"What do you think. The Countess von Wildenau is founding an Orphan's Home!" said the prince, as, leaving the Gross house, he joined a group of gentlemen who were waiting just outside the door in the little garden.

The news created a sensation; the gentlemen, laughing and jesting, plied him with questions.

"Oh, _Mon Dieu_, who can understand a woman? Our goddess is sitting in the peasants' living room, with the elderly daughters of the house, indescribable creatures, occupying herself with feminine work."

"Her Highness! Countess Wildenau! Oh, that's a bad joke."

"No, upon my honor! If she had not hung a veil over the window, we could see her sitting there. She has borrowed a calico apron from one of the 'ladies of the house,' and as, for want of a maid, she was obliged to arrange her hair herself, she wears it to-day in a remarkably simple style and looks,"--he kissed his hand to the empty air--"more bewitching than ever, like a girl of sixteen, a regular Gretchen! Whoever has not gone crazy over her when she has been in full dress, will surely do so if he sees her _thus_."

"Aha! We must see her, too; we'll assail the window!" cried his companions enthusiastically.

"No, no! For Heaven's sake don't do that, on pain of her anger! Prince Hohenheim, I beg you! Count Cossigny, don't knock! St. Genois, _au nom de Dieu_, she will never forgive you."

"Why not--friends so intimate as we are?"

"I have already said, who can depend upon a woman's whims? Let me explain. I entered, rejoicing in the thought of bringing her such pleasant news. I said: 'Guess whom I met just now at the ticket office, Countess?' The goddess sat sewing."

There was a general cry of astonishment. "Sewing!" the prince went on, "of course, without a thimble, for those in the house did not fit, and there was none among Her Highness' trinkets. So I repeated my question. An icy 'How can I tell?' was the depressing answer, as if at that moment nothing in the world could possibly interest her more than her work! So, unasked and with no display of attention, I was forced to go on with my news. 'Just think, Countess, Prince Hohenheim, the Counts Cossigny, Wengenrode, St. Genois, all Austria, France, and Bavaria have arrived!' I joyously exclaimed. I expected that she would utter a sigh of relief at the thought of meeting men of her world again, but no--she greeted my tidings with a frown."

"Hear, hear!" cried the group.

"A frown! I was forced to persist. 'They are outside, waiting to throw themselves at your feet,' I added. A still darker frown. 'Please keep the gentlemen away, I can see no one, I will see no one.' So she positively announced. I timidly ventured to ask why. She was tired, she could receive no one, she had no time. At last it came out. What do you suppose the countess did yesterday?"

"I dare not guess," replied St. Genois with a malicious glance at the prince, which the latter loftily ignored.

"She sent me away at eleven o'clock and then went wandering about, rhapsodizing over the moonlight with her host, old Gross."

A universal peal of laughter greeted these words. "Countess Wildenau, for lack of an escort, obliged to wander about with an old stone-cutter!"

"Yes, and she availed herself of this virtuous ramble to save the life of a despairing girl, who very opportunely attempted to commit suicide, just at the time the countess was passing to rescue this precious prize. Now she is sitting yonder remodeling one of her charming tailor costumes for this last toy of her caprice. She declares that she loves the wench most tenderly, will never be separated from her; in short, she is playing the novel character of Lady Bountiful, and does not want to be disturbed."

"Did you see the fair orphan?"

"No; she protested that it would be unpleasant for the girl to expose herself to curious glances, so she conceals this very sensitive young lady from profane eyes in her sleeping room. What do you say to all this, Prince?"

"I say," replied Prince Hohenheim, an elderly gentleman with a clearly cut, sarcastic face, a bald forehead, and a low, but distinct enunciation, "that a vivacious, imaginative woman is always influenced by the environment in which she happens to find herself. When the countess is in the society of scholarly people, she becomes extremely learned, if she is in a somewhat frivolous circle, like ours, she grows--not exactly frivolous, but full of sparkling wit, and here, among these devout enthusiasts, Her Highness wishes to play the part of a Stylite. Let us indulge her, it won't last long, a lady's whim must never be thwarted. _Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut!_"

"Has the countess also made a vow to fast?" asked Count Cossigny of the Austrian Embassy, and therefore briefly called 'Austria,' "could we not dine together?"

"No, she told me that she would not leave the beloved suicide alone a moment at present, and therefore she intended to dine at home. Yesterday she shuddered at the bare thought of drinking a cup of tea made in that witch's kitchen, and only the fact that my valet prepared it and I drank it first in her presence finally induced her, at ten o'clock last evening, to accept the refreshment. And to-day she will eat a dinner prepared by the ladies of the house. There must really be something dangerous in the air of Ammergau!"

"To persons of the countess' temperament, yes!" replied Prince Hohenheim in his calm manner, then slipping his arm through the prince's a moment, whispered confidentially, as they walked on: "I advise you, Prince Emil, to get her away as soon as possible."

"Certainly, all the arrangements are made. We shall start directly after the performance."

"That is fortunate. To-morrow, then! You have tickets?"

"Oh yes, and what is still better, whole bones."

"That's true," cried Austria, "what a crowd! One might think Sarah Bernhardt was going to play the Virgin Mary."

"It's ridiculous! I haven't seen such a spectacle since the Paris Exposition!" remarked St. Genois.

"It's worse than Baden-Baden at the time of the races," muttered Wengenrode, angrily. "Absurd, what brings the people here?"

"Why, _we_ are here, too," said Hohenheim, smiling.

"_Mon Dieu_, it must be seen once, if people are in the neighborhood," observed Cossigny.

"Are you going directly after the performance, too?" asked Prince Emil.

"Of course, what is there to do here? No gaming--no ladies' society, and just think, the burgomaster of Ammergau will allow neither a circus nor any other ordinary performance. He was offered _forty thousand marks_ by the proprietor of the Circus Rouannet, if he would permit him to give performances during the Passion Play! Mademoiselle Rouannet told me so herself. Do you suppose that obstinate, stiff-necked Philistine could be persuaded? No, it was not in harmony with the dignity of the Passion Play. He preferred to refuse the 40,000 marks. The Salon Klueber wanted to put up an elegant merry-go-round and offered 12,000 marks for the privilege. Heaven forbid!"

"I believe these people have the mania of ambition," said Wengenrode.

"Say rather of _saintship_,' corrected Prince Hohenheim.

"Aye, they all consider themselves the holy personages whom they represent. We need only look at this arrogant burgomaster, and the gentleman who personates Christ, to understand what these people imagine themselves."

All joined in the laugh which followed.

"Yes," said Wengenrode, "and the Roman procurator, Pilate, who is a porter or a messenger and so drags various loads about, carried up my luggage to-day and dropped my dressing case containing a number of breakable jars and boxes. 'Stupid blockhead!' I exclaimed, angrily. He straightened himself and looked at me with an expression which actually embarrassed me. 'My name is _Thomas Rendner_, sir! I beg your pardon for my awkwardness, and am ready to make your loss good, so far as my means shall allow.'"

"Now tell me, isn't that sheer hallucination of grandeur?"

Some of the gentlemen laughed, but Prince Emil and Hohenheim were silent.

"Where shall we go to-morrow evening in Munich to recompense ourselves for this boredom?" asked Cossigny.

"To the Casino, I think!" said the prince.

"Well, then we'll all meet there, shall we?"

The party assented.

"Provided that the countess has no commands for us," observed St. Genois.

"She will not have any," said the prince, "for either the Play will produce an absurd impression which is not to be expected, and then she will feel ashamed and unwilling to grant us our triumph because we predicted it, or her sentimental mood will draw from this farce a sweet poison of emotion, and in that case we shall be too frivolous for her! This must first be allowed to exhale."

"Very true," Hohenheim assented. "You are just the man to cope with this capricious beauty, Prince Emil. Adieu! May you prosper!"

The gentlemen raised their hats.

"Farewell!" said Cossigny, "by the way, I'll make a suggestion. We shall best impress the countess while in this mood, by our generosity; let us heap coals of fire on her head by sending a telegram to the court-gardener to convert the whole palace into a floral temple to welcome her return. It will touch a mysterious chord of sympathy if she meets only these mute messengers of our adoration. When on entering she finds this surprise and remembers how basely she treated us this morning, her heart will be touched and she will invite us to dine the day after to-morrow."

"A capital plan," cried Wengenrode and St. Genois, gaily. "Do your Highnesses agree?"

"Certainly," replied Hohenheim, with formal courtesy, "when the point in question is a matter of gallantry, a Hohenheim is never backward."

"I beg to be allowed to contribute also, but _incognito_. She would regard such an attention from me as a piece of sentimentality, and it would produce just the contrary effect," Prince Emil answered.

"As you please."

"Let us go to the telegraph office!" cried Wengenrode, eagerly.

"Farewell, gentlemen."

"_Au revoir_, Prince Emil! Are you going to return to the lionesses' den?"

"Can you ask?" questioned Hohenheim with a significant smile.

"Then early to-morrow morning at the Play, and at night the Casino, don't forget!" Cossigny called back.

The gentlemen, laughing and chatting, strolled down the street to their lodgings. The prince watched them a moment, turned, and went back to the countess.

"I cannot really be vexed with her, if these associates do not satisfy her," he thought.

"Should I desire her to become my wife, if they did? Certainly not. Yet if women only would not rush from one extreme to another? Hohenheim is perfectly right, she ought not to stay here too long, she must go to-morrow."

He had reached the house and entered the neglected old garden where huge gnarled fruit trees, bearing small, stunted fruit, interlaced their branches above a crooked bench. There, in the midst of the rank grass and weeds, sat the countess, her beautiful head resting against the mouldy bark of the old trunk, gazing thoughtfully at the luminous mountains gleaming in the distance through the tangled boughs and shrubbery.

From the adjoining garden of the sculptor Zwink, whose site was somewhat higher, a Diana carved in white stone gazed curiously across, seeming as if she wished to say to the pensive lady who at that moment herself resembled a statue: "Art will create gods for you _everywhere_!" But the temptation had no effect, the countess seemed to have had no luck with these gods, she no longer believed in them!

"Well, Countess Madeleine, did the light and air lure you out of doors?" asked the prince, joyfully approaching her.

"Oh, I could not bear to stay there any longer. Herr Gross' daughters are finishing the dress. We will dine here, Prince; the meal can be served on a table near the house, under a wild-grape vine arbor. We can wait on ourselves for one day."

"For _one_ day!" repeated the prince with great relief; "oh yes, it can be managed for one day." Thank Heaven, she had no intention of staying here.

"Oh, Prince, see how beautiful, how glorious it is!"

"Beautiful, glorious? Pardon me, but I see nothing to call forth words you so rarely use! You must have narrowed your demands if, after the view of the wondrous garden of the Isola Bella and all the Italian villas, you suddenly take delight in cabbage-stalks, wild-pears, broom, and colt's foot."

"Now see how you talk again!" replied the countess, unpleasantly affected by his words. "Does not Spinoza say: 'Everything is beautiful, and as I lose myself in the observation of its beauty, my pleasure in life is increased.'"

"That has not been your motto hitherto. You have usually found something to criticise in every object. It seems to me that you have wearied of the beautiful and now, by way of a change, find even _ugliness_ fair."

"Very true, my friend. I am satisfied, nothing charms me, nothing satisfies me, not even the loveliest scene, because I always apply to everything the standard of perfection, and nothing attains it." She shook herself suddenly as if throwing off a burden. "This must not continue, the aesthetic intolerance which poisoned every pleasure must end, I will cast aside the whole load of critical analysis and academic ideas of beauty, and snap my fingers at the ghosts of Winckelmann and Lessing. Here in the kitchen-garden, among cabbage-stalks and colt's foot, wild-pear and plum-trees, fanned by the fresh, crystal-clear air of the lofty mountains, whose glaciers shimmer with a bluish light through the branches, in the silence and solitude, I suddenly find it beautiful; beautiful because I am happy, because I am only a human being, free from every restraint, thinking nothing, feeling nothing save the peace of nature, the delight of this repose."

She rested her feet comfortably on the bench and, with her head thrown back, gazed with a joyous expression into the blue air which, after the rain, arched above the earth like a crystal bell.

This mood did not quite please the prince. He was exclusively a man of the world. His thoughts were ruled by the laws of the most rigid logic, whatever was not logically attainable had no existence for him; his enthusiasm reached the highest pitch only in the enjoyment of the noblest products of art and science. He did not comprehend how any one could weary of them, even for a moment, on the one side because his calm temperament did not, like the countess' passionate one, exhaust everything by following it to its inmost core, and he was thus guarded from satiety; on the other because he wholly lacked appreciation of nature and her unconscious grandeur. He was the trained vassal of custom in the conventional, as well as in every other province. The countess, however, possessed some touch of that doctrine of divine right which is ready, at any moment, to cast off the bonds of tradition and artificial models and obey the impulse of kinship with sovereign nature. This was the boundary across which he could not follow her, and he was perfectly aware of it, for he had one of those proud characters which disdain to deceive themselves concerning their own powers. Yet it filled him with grave anxiety.

"What are you thinking of now, Prince?" asked his companion, noticing his gloomy mood.

"That I have not seen you so contented for months, and yet I am unable to understand the cause of this satisfaction. Especially when I remember what it usually requires to bring a smile of pleasure to your lips."

"Dear me, must everything be understood?" cried the beautiful woman, laughing; "there is the pedant again! Must we be perpetually under the curb of self-control and give ourselves an account whether what we feel in a moment of happiness is sensible and authorized? Must we continually see ourselves reflected in the mirror of our self-consciousness, and never draw a veil over our souls and permit God to have one undiscovered secret in them?"

The prince silently kissed her hand. His eyes now expressed deep, earnest feeling, and stirred by emotion, she laid her other hand upon his head:

"You are a noble-hearted man, Prince; though some unspoken, uncomprehended idea stands between us, I know your feelings."

Again the rose and the thorn! It was always so! At the very moment her soft, sweet hand touched him caressingly, she thrust a dagger into his heart. Aye, that was the continual "misunderstanding" which existed between them, the thorn in the every rose she proffered.

Women like these are only tolerable when they really love; when a powerful feeling makes them surrender themselves completely. Where this is not the case, they are, unconsciously and involuntarily, malicious, dangerous creatures, caressing and slaying at the same moment.

First, woe betide the man whom _they believe_ they love. For how often such beings are mistaken in their feelings!

Such delusions do not destroy the woman, she often experiences them, but the man who has shared them with her! Alas for him who has not kept a cool head.

The prince was standing with his back turned to the street, gazing thoughtfully at the beautiful woman with the fathomless, sparkling eyes. Suddenly he saw her start and flush. Turning with the speed of lightning, he followed the direction of her glance, but saw nothing except the figure of a man of unusual height, with long black hair, pass swiftly around the corner and disappear.

"Do you know that gentleman?"

"No," replied the countess frankly, "he is the person whom I saw yesterday as we drove up the mountain."

"Pardon the indiscretion, but you blushed."

"Yes, I felt it, but I don't know why," she answered with an almost artless innocence in her gaze. The prince could not help smiling.

"Countess, Countess!" he said, shaking his finger at her as if she were a child. "Guard your imagination; it will prove a traitor some day."

The countess, as if with a sweet consciousness of guilt, drew down the uplifted hand with a movement of such indescribable grace that no one could have remained angry with her. The prince knelt at her feet an instant, not longer than a blade of grass requires to bend before the breeze and rise again, then he stood erect, somewhat paler than before, but perfectly calm.

"I'll go in and tell my valet to serve our dinner here."

"If you please, Prince," replied the lady, gazing absently down the street.

Andreas Gross entered the garden. "Everything is settled, Your Highness. I have talked with Josepha's relatives and guardian and they will be very glad to have you take her."

"All, even the Christ-Freyer?"

"Certainly, there is no objection."

She had expected something more and looked at the old man as if for the rest of the message, but he added nothing.

"Ought not Freyer to come here, in order to discuss the particulars with me?" she asked at last, almost timidly.

"Why, he goes to see no one, as I told you, and he surely would not come to speak of Josepha, for he is ashamed of her. He says that whatever you do will be satisfactory to him."

"Very well," replied the countess, in a somewhat disappointed tone.

"What a comical tete-a-tete!" a laughing voice suddenly exclaimed behind the fence. The countess started up, but it was too late for escape; she was caught.

A lady, young and elegantly dressed, accompanied by two older ones, eagerly rushed up to her.

"Dear Countess, why have you hidden yourself here at the farthest corner of the village? We have searched all Ammergau for you. Your coat-of-arms on the carriage and your liveries at the old post-house betrayed you. Yes, yes, when people want to travel _incognito_, they must not journey with genuine Wildenau elegance. We were more cautious. We came in a modest hired conveyance. But what a life this is! I was obliged to sleep on straw last night. Hear and shudder! On _straw_! Did you have a bed? You have been here since yesterday?"

"Why, Your Highness, pray take breath! Good morning, Baroness! Good morning, Your Excellency!"

The Countess von Wildenau greeted all the ladies somewhat absently, yet very cordially. "Will you condescend to sit on this bench?"

"Oh, you must sit here, too."

"No, It is not large enough, I am already seated."

She had taken her seat on the root of a tree, with her face turned toward the street, in which she seemed to be deeply interested. The ladies were accommodated on the bench, and then followed a conversation which no pen could describe. This, that, and the other thing, matters to which the countess had not given a single thought, an account of everything the new comers had heard about the Ammergau people, the appearance of the Christ, whom they had already met, a handsome man, very handsome, with magnificent hair, and mysterious eyes--not the head of Christ, but rather as one would imagine Faust or Odin; but there was no approaching him, he was so unsociable. Such a pity, it would have been so interesting to talk with him. Rumor asserted that he was in love with a noble lady; it was very possible, there was no other way of explaining his distant manner.

Countess von Wildenau had become very quiet, the eyes bent upon the street had an expression of actual suffering in their depths.

Prince Emil stood in the doorway, mischievously enjoying the situation. It was a just punishment for her capricious whims that now, after having so insolently refused to see her friends, she should be compelled to listen to this senseless chatter.

At last, however, he took pity on her and sent out his valet with the table-cloth and plates.

"Oh, it is your dinner hour!" The ladies started up and Her Highness raised her lorgnette.

"Ah, Prince Emil's valet! So the faithful Toggenburg is with you."

"Certainly, ladies!" said a voice from the door, as the prince came forward. "Only I was too timid to venture into such a dangerous circle."

Peals of laughter greeted him.

"Yes, yes; the Prince of Metten-Barnheim timid!"

"At present I am merely the representative of Countess Wildenau's discharged courier, whose office, with my usual devotion, I am trying to fill, and doing everything in my power to escape the fate of my predecessor."

"That of being sent away?" asked the baroness somewhat maliciously.

Countess Madeleine cast a glance of friendly reproach at him. "How can you say such things, Prince?"

"Your soup is growing cold!" cried the duchess.

"Where does Your Highness dine?"

"At the house of one of the chorus singers, where we are lodging. A man with the bearing of an apostle, and a blacksmith by trade. It is strange, all these people have a touch of ideality about them, and all this beautiful long hair! Haven't you walked through the village yet? Oh, you must, it's very odd; the people who throng around the actors in the Passion Play are types we shall not soon see again. I'm waiting eagerly for to-morrow. I hope our seats will be near. Farewell, dear Countess!" The duchess took the arm of the prince, who escorted her to the garden gate. "I hope you will take care that the countess, under the influence of the Passion, doesn't enter a convent the day after to-morrow."

"Your Highness forgets that I am an incorrigible heretic," laughed Madeleine Wildenau, kissing the two ladies in waiting, in her absence of mind, with a tenderness which they were at a loss to understand.

The prince accompanied the ladies a short distance away from the house, while Madeleine returned to Josepha, as if seeking in the society of the sorrowful, quiet creature, rest from the noisy conversation.

"Really, Countess von Wildenau has an over-supply of blessings. This magnificent widow's dower, the almost boundless revenue from the Wildenau estates, and a host of suitors!" said the baroness, after the prince had taken leave to return to "his idol."

"Yes, but she will lose the revenue if she marries again," replied the duchess. "The will was made in that way by Count Wildenau because his jealousy extended beyond the grave. I know all the particulars. She must either remain a widow or make a _very_ brilliant match; for a woman of her temperament could _never_ accommodate herself to more modest circumstances."

"So she is not a good match?" asked Her Excellency.

"Certainly not, for the will is so worded that on the day she exchanges the name of Wildenau for another, the estates, with the whole income, go to a side branch of the Wildenau family as there are no direct heirs. It is enough to make one hate him, for the Wildenau cousins are extravagant and avaricious men who have already squandered one fortune. The poor countess will then have nothing except her personal property, her few diamonds, and whatever gifts she received from her husband."

"Has she no private fortune?" asked the baroness, curiously.

"You know that she was a Princess Prankenburg, and the financial affairs of the Prankenburg family are very much embarrassed. That is why the beautiful young girl was sacrificed at seventeen to that horrible old Wildenau, who in return was forced to pay her father's debts," the duchess explained.

"Oh, so _that's_ the way the matter stands!" said Her Excellency, drawing a long breath. "Do her various admirers know it? All the gentlemen undoubtedly believe her to be immensely rich."

"Oh, she makes no secret of these facts," replied the duchess kindly. "She is sincere, that must be acknowledged, and she endured a great deal with her nervous old husband. We all know what he was; every one feared him and he tyrannized over his wife. What was all her wealth and splendor to her? One ought not to grudge her a taste of happiness."

"She laid aside her widow's weeds as soon as possible. People thought that very suspicious," observed the baroness in no friendly tone.

"That is exactly why I say: she is better than her reputation, because she scorns falsehood and hypocrisy," replied the duchess, leading the way across a narrow bridge. The two ladies in waiting, lingering a little behind, whispered: "_She_ scorn falsehood and deception! Why, Your Excellency, her whole nature is treachery. She cannot exist a moment without acting some farce! With the pious she is pious, with the Liberals she plays the Liberal, she coquets with every party to maintain her influence as ex-ambassadress. She cannot cease intriguing and plotting. Now she is once more assuming the part of youthful artlessness to bewitch this Prince Emil. Did you see that look of embarrassment just now, like a young girl? It is enough to make one ill!"

"Yes, just see how she has duped that handsome, clever prince, the heir of a reigning family, too," lamented Her Excellency, who had daughters. "It is a shocking affair, he is seen everywhere with her; and yet there is no report of a betrothal! What do the men find in her? She captivates them all, young and old, there is no difference."

"And she is no longer even _beautiful_. She has faded, lost all her freshness, it is nothing but coquetry!" answered the baroness hastily, for the duchess had stopped and was waiting for the ladies to overtake her. So they walked on in the direction of the Passion Theatre where, on the morrow, they were to behold the God of Love, for whose sake they made this pious pilgrimage.

"You were rightly served, Countess Madeleine," said the prince laughing, as they took their seats at the table. "You sent away your true friends and fell into the hands of these false ones."

"The duchess is not false," answered the countess with a weary look, "she is noble in thought and act."

"Like all who are in a position where they need envy no one," said the prince, pushing aside with his spoon certain little islands of doubtful composition which were floating in the soup. "But believe me, with these few exceptions, no one save men, deals sincerely with an admired woman. Women of the ordinary stamp cannot repress their envy. I should not like to hear what is being said of us by these friends on their way home."

"What does it matter?" answered his companion, leaving her soup untasted.

"Our poor diplomatic corps, which had anticipated so much pleasure in seeing you," the prince began again. "I would almost like to ask you a favor, Countess!"

"What is it?"

"That you will invite us to dine day after to-morrow. The gentlemen have resolved to avenge themselves nobly by offering you an ovation on your return to Munich to-morrow evening."

"Indeed, what is it?"

"I ought not to betray the secret, but I know that you do not like surprises. The Wildenau palace will be transformed into a temple of flowers. Everything is already ordered, it is to be matchless, fairy like!"

The speaker was secretly watching the impression made by his words; he must get her away from this place at any cost! The mysterious figure which had just called to her cheeks a flush for whose sake he would have sacrificed years of his life, then he had noticed--nothing escaped his keen eye and ear--her annoyed, almost jealous expression when the ladies spoke of the "raven-locked" Christ and his love for some high-born dame. She must leave this place ere the whim gained a firm hold. The worthy peasant-performer might not object to the admiration of noble ladies, a pinchback theatre-saint would hardly resist a Countess Wildenau, if she should choose to make him the object of an eccentric caprice.

"It is very touching in the gentlemen," said the countess; "let us anticipate them and invite them to dine the day after to-morrow."

"Ah, there spoke my charming friend, now I am content with you. Will you permit me, at the close of this luxurious meal, to carry the joyous tidings to the gentlemen?"

"Do so," she answered carelessly. "And when you have delivered the invitation, would you do me the favor to telegraph to my steward?"

"Certainly." He pushed back the plate containing an unpalatable cutlet and drew out his note-book to make a memorandum.

"What shall I write?"

"Steward Geres, Wildenau Palace, Munich.--Day after to-morrow, Monday, Dinner at 6 o'clock, 12 plates, 15 courses," dictated the countess.

"There, that is settled. But, Countess, twelve persons! Whom do you intend to invite?"

"When I return the duchess' visit I will ask the three ladies, then Prince Hohenheim and Her Excellency's two daughters will make twelve."

"But that will be terribly wearisome to the neighbors of Her Excellency's daughters."

"Yes, still it can't be helped, I must give the poor girls a chance to make their fortune! With the exception of Prince Hohenheim, you are all in the market!" she said smiling.

"No one could speak so proudly save a Countess Wildenau, who knows that every other woman only serves as a foil," replied the prince, kissing her hand with a significant smile. She was remarkably gracious that day; she permitted her hand to rest in his, there was a shade of apology in her manner. Apology for what? He had no occasion to ponder long--she was ashamed of having neglected a trusted friend for a chimera, a nightmare, which had assumed the form of a man with mysterious black eyes and floating locks. The ladies' stories of the love affairs of the presumptive owner of these locks had destroyed the dream and broken the spell of the nightmare.

"Admirable, it had happened very opportunely."

"But, Countess, the gentlemen will be disappointed, if the ladies, also, come. Would it not be much pleasanter without them? You are far more charming and entertaining when you are the only lady present at our little smoking parties."

"We can have one later. The ladies will leave at ten. Then you others can remain."

"And who will be sent away _next_, when you are wearied by this _apres soiree_? Who will be allowed to linger on a few minutes and smoke the last cigarette with you?" he added, coaxingly. He looked very handsome at that moment.

"We shall see," replied the countess, and for the first time her voice thrilled with a warmer emotion. Her hand still rested in his, she had forgotten to withdraw it. Suddenly its warmth roused her, and his blue eyes flashed upon her a light as brilliant as the indiscreet glare which sometimes rouses a sleeper.

She released it, and as the dinner was over, rose from the little table.

"Will you go with me to call on the duchess later?" she asked. "If so, I will dress now, while you give the invitation to the gentlemen, and you can return afterward."

"As you choose!" replied the prince in an altered tone, for the slight variation in the lady's mood had not escaped his notice. "In half an hour, then. Farewell!"

CHAPTER VI.

THE EVENING BEFORE THE PLAY.

Josepha sat in the countess' room at work on her new dress. She was calm and quiet; the delight in finery which never abandons a woman to her latest hour--the poorest peasant, if still conscious, asks for a nicer cap when the priest comes to bring the last sacrament--had asserted its power in her. The countess noticed it with pleasure.

"Shall you finish it soon, Josepha?"

"In an hour, Your Highness!"

"Very well, I shall return about that time, and then we'll try the dress on."

"Oh, your ladyship, it's a sin for me to put on such a handsome gown, nobody will see me."

"Not here, if you don't wish them to do so, but to-morrow evening we shall go to Munich, where you will begin a new life, with no brand upon your brow."

Josepha kissed the countess' hand; a few large tears rolled down on the dress which was to clothe a new creature. Then she helped her mistress to put on a walking toilette, performing her task skillfully and quickly. The latter fixed a long, thoughtful look upon her. "You are somewhat like your cousin, the Christ, are you not?"

"So people say!"

"I suppose he sees a great many ladies?"

"They all run after him, the high as well as the low. And it isn't the strangers only, the village girls are crazy over him, too. He might have _any_ one he wanted, it seems as if he fairly bewitched the women."

"I heard that the reason for his secluded life was that he had a love affair with some noble lady."

"Indeed?" said Josepha carelessly, "I don't know anything about it. I don't believe it, though he would not tell me, even if it were true. Oh, people talk about him so much, that's one reason for the envy. But his secluded life isn't on account of any noble lady! He has had nothing to say to anybody here since they refused to let me take part in the Play and gossiped so much about me. Though he doesn't speak of it, it cuts him to the heart. Alas, I am to blame, and no one else."

Countess Wildenau, obeying a sudden impulse, kissed the girl on the forehead: "Farewell, keep up courage, don't weep, rejoice in your new life; I will soon return."

As she passed out, she spoke to the Gross sisters commending Josepha to their special care.

"The gentlemen are delighted, and send you their most grateful homage," called the prince.

"Then they are all coming?" said Countess Wildenau, taking his arm.

"All, there was no hesitation!" he answered, again noticing in his companion's manner the restlessness which had formerly awakened his anxiety. As they passed down the street together, her eyes were wandering everywhere.

"She is seeking some one," thought the prince.

"Let me tell you that I am charmed with this Ammergau Christ," cried the duchess, as they approached the blacksmith's house. She was sitting in the garden, which contained a tolerably large manure heap, a "Saletl," the name given to an open summer-house, and three fruit-trees, amid which the clothes lines were stretched. On the house was a rudely painted Madonna, life-size, with the usual bunch of flowers, gazing with a peculiar expression at the homage offered to her son, or at least, so it seemed to the countess.

"Have you seen him, Duchess? I am beginning to be jealous!" said the countess with a laugh intended to be natural, but which sounded a little forced.

The visitors entered the arbor; after an exchange of greeting, the duchess told her guests that she had been with the ladies to the drawing-school, where they had met Freyer. The head-master (the son of Countess von Wildenau's host) had presented him to the ladies, and he had been obliged to exchange a few words with them, then he made his escape. They were "fairly _wild_." His bearing, his dignity, the blended courtesy and reserve of his manner, so modest and yet so proud, and those eyes!

The prince was on coals of fire.

The blacksmith was hammering outside, shoeing a horse whose hoof was so crooked that the iron would not fit. The man's face was dripping with sooty perspiration, yet when he turned it toward the ladies, they saw a classic profile and soft, dreamy eyes.

"Beautiful hair and eyes appear to be a specialty among the Ammergau peasants," said the prince somewhat abruptly, interrupting the duchess. "Look at yonder smith, wash off the soot and we shall have a superb head of Antinous."

"Yes, isn't that true? He is a splendid fellow, too," replied the duchess. "Let us call him here."

The smith was summoned and, wiping the grime from his face with his shirt sleeves, modestly approached. The prince watched with honest admiration the man's gait and bearing, clear-cut, intelligent features, and slender, lithe figure, which betrayed no sign of his hard labor save in the tense sinews and muscles of the arms.

"I must apologize," he said in excellent German--the Ammergau people use dialect only when speaking to one another--"I am in my working clothes and scarcely fit to be seen."

"You have a charming voice. Do you sing baritone?"

"Yes, Your Highness, but I rarely sing at all. My voice unfortunately is much injured by my hard toil, and my fingers are growing too stiff to play on the piano, so I cannot accompany myself."

"Do you play on the piano?"

"Certainly, Your Highness."

"Good Heavens, where did you learn?"

"Here in the village, Your Highness. Each one of us learns to use some instrument, else where should we obtain an orchestra for the Passion?"

"Think of it!" said the duchess in French, "A blacksmith who plays on the piano; peasants who form an orchestra!" Then addressing her host in German, she added, "I suppose you have a church choir!"

"Certainly, Your Highness."

"And what masses do you perform?"

"Oh, nearly all the beautiful ones, some dating from the ancient Cecilian Church music, others from the later masters, Handel, Bach, down to the most modern times. A short time ago I sung Gounod's Ave Maria in the church, and this winter we shall give a Gethsemane by Kempter."

"Is it possible!" said the duchess, "_c'est unique!_ Then you are really all artists and ought not to follow such hard trades."

"Yes, Duchess, but we must _live_. Our wives and children must be supported. _All_ cannot be wood-carvers, smiths are needed, too. If the artisan is not rough, the trade is no disgrace."

"But have you time, with your business, for such artistic work?"

"Oh, yes, we do it in the evenings, after supper. We meet at half past seven and often practise our music till twelve or even one o'clock."

"Oh, how tired you must be to study far into the night after the labor of the day."

"Oh, that doesn't harm us, it is our recreation and pleasure. Art is the only thing which lifts men above their daily cares! I would not wish to live, if I did not possess it, and we all have the same feeling."

The ladies exchanged glances.

"But, when do you sleep? You must be obliged to rise early in the morning."

"Oh, we Ammergau people are excitable, we need little sleep. To bed at one and up at five gives us rest enough."

"Well, then, you must live well, or you could not bear it."

"Yes, we live very well, we have meat every Sunday," said the smith with much satisfaction.

"_C'est touchant!_" cried the duchess. "Meat _once_ a week? And the rest of the time?"

"Oh, we eat something made of flour. My wife is an excellent cook, she was the cook in Count P.'s household!" he added with great pride, casting an affectionate glance at the plump little woman, holding a child in her arms, standing at the door of the house. He would gladly have presented this admirable wife to the strangers, but the ladies seemed less interested in her.

"What do you eat in the evening?"

"We have coffee at six o'clock, and drink a few glasses of beer when we meet at the tavern."

"And do all the Ammergau people live so?"

"All. No one wants anything different."

"Even your Christ?"

"Oh, he fares worse than we, he is unmarried and has no one to care for him."

"What a life, dear Countess, what a life!" the duchess, murmured in French.

"But you have a piano in your house. If you are able to get such an instrument, you ought to afford better food," said Her Excellency.

The blacksmith smiled, "If we had had better food, we should not have been able to buy the piano. We saved it from our stomachs."

"That is the true Ammergau spirit," said the countess earnestly. "They will starve to secure a piano. Every endeavor is toward the ideal and the intellectual, for which they are willing to make any personal sacrifice. I have never seen such people."

"Nor have I. It seems as if the Passion Play gave them all a special consecration," answered the duchess.

Countess von Wildenau rose. Her thoughts were so far away that she was about to take leave without remembering her invitation. But Prince Emil said impressively:

"Countess, surely you are forgetting that you intended to _invite_ the ladies--."

"Yes, yes," she interrupted, "it had almost escaped my mind." The smith modestly went back to his work, for the horse was growing restless, and the odor of burnt horn and hair soon pervaded the atmosphere.

Meanwhile the countess delivered her invitation, which was accepted with great enthusiasm.

A stately, athletic man in a blouse, carrying a chest on his shoulder, passed the ladies. The burden was terribly heavy, for even his powerful, well-knit frame staggered under it, and his handsome kingly head was bowed almost to the earth.

"Look, Countess, that is Thomas Rendner the Roman procurator. We shall soon make the acquaintance of the whole company. We sit here in the summer-house like a spider in its web, not a fly can pass unseen."

"Good Heavens, that Pilate!" exclaimed the countess, watching him with sympathizing eyes, "Poor man, to-day panting under an oppressive burden, to-morrow robed in purple and crowned with a diadem, only to exchange them again on the third day, for the porter's dusty blouse, and take the yoke upon himself once more. What a contrast, and yet he loses neither his balance nor his temper! Indeed I think that we can learn as much here outside of the Passion Play, as from the spectacle itself."

"Yes, if we watch with your deep, thoughtful eyes, my dear Countess!" said the duchess, kissing the speaker's brow. "We will discuss this subject farther when we drive with you the day after to-morrow."

The ladies parted. Madeleine von Wildenau, leaning on the prince's arm, walked silently through the crowd which now, on the eve of the play, thronged the narrow streets. The din and tumult were enough to deprive one of sight and hearing. Dazed by the confusion, she clung closely to her companion's arm.

"Good Heavens, is it possible that Christianity still possesses such a power of attraction!" she murmured, involuntarily, while struggling through the throng.

The ground in the Ettal road trembled under the roll of carriage wheels. The last evening train had arrived, and a flood of people and vehicles poured into the village already almost crushed beneath the tide of human beings. Horses half driven to death, dragging at a gallop heavy landaus crowded with six or eight persons. Lumbering wagons containing twenty or thirty travellers just as they had climbed in, sometimes half clinging to the steps or the boxes of the wheels, swayed to and fro; intoxicated, excited by the mad rush and the fear of being left behind--raging and shrieking like a horde of unchained fiends come to disturb the sacred drama rather than pious pilgrims who wished to witness it, the frantic mob poured in. "_Sauve qui peut_" was the motto, the prince lifted the countess on a small post by the roadside. Just at that moment the fire-brigade marched by to watch the theatre. It was said that several of the neighboring parishes, envious of Ammergau, had threatened to ruin the Play by setting the theatre on fire. Fire engines and strangers' carriages passed pell-mell. The people of Ammergau themselves, alarmed and enraged by the cruel threat, were completely disconcerted; passionate discussions, vehement commands, and urgent entreaties were heard on all sides. Prompt and energetic action was requisite, the fate of all Ammergau was at stake.

The bells now began to ring and at the same moment the first of the twenty-five cannon shots which were to consecrate the morrow's festival was discharged, and the musicians passed through the streets.

The air fairly quivered with the deafening uproar of all these mingling waves of sound. Darkness was gathering, the countess grew giddy, she felt as if she were stifling in the tumult. A pair of horses fell just below them, causing a break in the line of carriages, which the prince used to get his companion across, and she at last reached home, almost fainting. Her soul was stirred to its inmost depths. What was the power which produced such effects?

Was this the calm, petty doctrine, which had been inculcated so theoretically and coldly at the school-room desk and from the pulpit, and with which, when a child, she has been disgusted by an incomprehensible school-catechism? Was this the doctrine which, from earliest childhood, had been nothing more than a wearisome dead letter, to which, as it had become the religion of the state, an official visit to church was due from time to time, just as, on certain days, cards were left on ambassadors and government officials?

The wind still bore from the village the noise of the throngs of people, the ringing of the bells, and the thunder of the cannon, blended with occasional bursts of music. The countess had had similar experiences when tidings of great victories had been received during the last war, but those were _facts_. For the first time in her life she asked herself if Christianity was a fact? And if not, if it was only an idea, what inherent power, after the lapse of nearly two thousand years, produced such an effect?

Why did all these people come--why did she _herself_? The human race is homesick, it no longer knows for what; it is only a vague impulse, but one which instinctively draws it in the direction where it perceives a sign, a vestige of what it has lost and forever seeks. Such, she knows it now, such is the feeling of all the throngs that have flocked hither to-day, she realized that at this moment she was a microcosm of weary, wandering mankind seeking for salvation.

And as when, deceived and disappointed in everything, we seek the picture of some dead friend, long since forgotten, and press it weeping to our lips, she clung to the image of the Redeemer. Now that everything had deluded her, no system which had boastfully promised a victory over calamity and death had stood the test, after one makeshift had supplanted another without supplying what was lacking, after all the vaunted remedies of philosophy and materialism proved mere palliatives which make the evil endurable for the moment but do not heal it, suffering, cheated humanity was suddenly seeking the image of the lost friend so long forgotten. But a dead friend cannot come forth from a picture, a painted heart can no longer beat. Could _Christ_ rise again in His image? Could _His_ word live once more on the lips of a stranger? And would the drops of artificial blood, trickling from the brow of the personified Messiah, possess redeeming power?

That was the miracle which attracted the throngs from far and near, _that_ must be the marvel, and tomorrow it would be revealed.

"Of what are you dreaming, Countess Madeleine?" asked the prince after a pause which she had spent in the wild-grape arbor near the house gazing into vacancy, with her head resting on her hand. She looked up, glancing at him as if she had entirely forgotten his presence. "I don't know what is the cause of my emotion, the tumult in the village has stirred me deeply! I feel that only potent things could send such a storm before them, and it seems as if it was the portent of some wonderful event!"

"Good Heavens! What extravagant fancies, my dear Countess! I believe you add to all your rich gifts the dangerous one of poesy! I admire and honor you for it--but I can perceive in this storm nothing save a proof that curiosity is the greatest and most universal trait in human character, and that these throngs desire nothing more than the satisfaction of their curiosity. The affair is fashionable just now, and that explains the whole."

"Prince, I pity you for what you have just said," replied the countess, rising. Her face wore the same cold, lifeless expression as on the day of her arrival.

"But, my dearest friend, for Heavens's sake tell me, did _you_ and _I_ come from any other motive than curiosity?"

"You, no! I, yes!"

"Don't say that, _chere amie_. You, the scholar, superior to us all in learning; you, the disciple of Schopenhauer, the proud philosopher, the believer in Nirvana."

"Yes, I, Prince!" cried the countess, "The philosopher who was not happy for an hour, not content for a moment. What is this Nirvana? A stone idol, which the fruitless speculation of our times has conjured from the rubbish of archaeological excavations, and which stares at us with its vacant eyes until we fall into an intellectual hypnotism which we mistake for peace." An expression of bitter sarcasm rested on her lips. "I came here to bring pessimism and Christianity face to face. I thought it would be very novel to see the stone idol Nirvana, with his hands on his lap and the silence of eternal death on his lips, watch the martyr, dripping with sweat and blood, bear His own cross to the place of execution and cheerfully take up the work where Buddha faltered; on the boundary of non-existence. I wanted to see how the two would treat each other, if for nothing more than a comparative study of religion."

"You are irresistible in your charming mockery, dearest Countess, yet logically I cannot confess myself conquered!" replied the prince. The countess smiled: "Of course, when did a man ever acknowledge that to a woman, where intellectual matters were concerned? A sunny curl, the seductive arch of an upper lip, a pair of blue eyes sparkling with tears will make you lords of creation the dupes of the most ordinary coquette or even the yielding toy of the dullest ignorance. We women all know it! But, if we assail your dry logic, you are as unconquerable as Antaeus so long as he stood upon the earth! You, too, could only be vanquished by whoever had the power to lift you from the ground where _you_ stand."

"You might have that power, Countess. Not by your arguments, but by your eyes. You know that _one_ loving glance would not only lift me from the earth but into heaven, and then you could do with me what you would."

"You have forfeited the loving glance! Perhaps it might have _rewarded_ your assent, but it would never _purchase_ it, I scorn bribed judges, for I am sure of my cause!"

"Countess, pardon my frankness: it is a pity that you have so much intellect."

"Why?"

"Because it leads you into sophistical by-ways; your tendency to mysticism gives an apparently logical foundation and thereby strengthens you the more in this dangerous course. A more simple, temperate judgment would _guard_ you from it."

"Well, Prince--" she looked at him pityingly, contemptuously--"may Heaven preserve me from _such_ a judgment as well as from all who may seek to supply its place to me. Excuse me for this evening. I should like to devote an hour to these worthy people and soothe my nerves--I have been too much excited by the scenes we have witnessed. Goodnight, Prince!"

Prince Emil turned pale. "Good-night, Countess. Perhaps to-morrow you will be somewhat more humane in this cat and mouse game; to-day I am sent home with a bleeding wound." With lips firmly compressed, he bowed his farewell and left the garden. Madeleine looked after him: "He is angry. I cannot help him, he deserved it. Oh, foolish man, who deemed yourself so clever! Do you suppose this glowing heart desires no other revelations than those of pure reason? Do you imagine that the arguments of all the philosophical systems of humanity could offer it that for which it longs? Shall I find it? Heaven knows! But one thing is certain, I shall no longer seek it in _you_."

The sound of moans and low sobs came from the chamber above the countess' room. It was Josepha. Countess Wildenau passed through the little trap-door and entered it. The girl was kneeling beside the bed, with her face buried in the pillows, to shut out the thunder of the cannon and the sound of the bells, which summoned the actors in the sacred Play from which she alone, the sinner, the outcast, was shut out.

Mary Magdalene, too, had sinned and erred, yet she had been suffered to remain near the Lord. She was permitted to touch His divine body and to wipe His feet with her hair! But _she_ was not allowed to render this service to His _image_! She grasped the mass of wonderful silken locks which fell in loosened masses over her shoulders. What did she care for this beautiful hair now? She would fain cut it off and throw it into the Ammer or, better still, bury it in the earth, the earth on which the Passion Theatre stood. With a hasty movement, she snatched a pair of shears which lay beside the bed, and just as the countess' foot touched the threshold, a sharp, cutting sound was heard and the most beautiful red hair that ever adorned a girl's head fell like a dying flame at her feet. "Josepha, what are you doing?" cried the countess, "Oh, what a pity to lose that magnificent hair!"

"What do I care for it?" sobbed Josepha, "It can never be seen in the Play! When the performance is over, I will slip into the theatre before we leave and bury it under the stage, where the cross stands. There I will leave it, there it shall stay, since I am no longer able to make it serve Him." She threw herself into the countess' arms and hid her tear-stained face upon her bosom. Alas, she was not even allowed to appear among the populace, she alone was banished from the cross, yet she knew that the _real_ Saviour would have suffered her to be at His feet as well as Mary Magdalene.

"Console yourself, Josepha, your belief does not deceive you. The real Christ would not have punished you so cruelly. Men are always more severe than God. Whence should they obtain divine magnanimity, they are so petty. They are like a servant who is arrogant and avaricious for his master because he does not understand his wishes and turns from the door the poor whom his master would gladly have welcomed and refreshed." She kissed the young girl's brow. "Be calm, Josepha, gather up your hair, you shall bury it to-morrow in the earth which is so dear to you. I promise that I will think of you when the other Magdalene appears; your shadow shall stand between her and me, so that I shall see you alone! Will this be a slight consolation to you?"

Josepha, for the first time, looked up into the countess' eyes with a smile. "Yes, it is a comfort. Ah, you are so kind, you take pity on me while all reproach and condemn me."

"Oh, Josepha! If people judged thus, which of us would be warranted in casting the first stone at you?" The countess uttered the words with deep earnestness, and thoughtfully left the room.

CHAPTER VII.

THE PASSION PLAY.

Day was dawning. The first rays of the morning sun, ever broader and brighter, were darting through the air, whose blue waves surged and quivered under the flaming couisers of the ascending god of day. Aphrodite seemed to have bathed and left her veil in the foam of the wild mountain stream into which the penitent Magdalene had tried to throw herself. Apollo in graceful sport, had gathered the little white clouds to conceal the goddess and they waved and fluttered merrily in the morning breeze around the rushing chariot. Then, as if the thundering hoof-beats of the fiery chargers had echoed from the vaulted arch of the firmament, the solemn roar of cannon announced the approach of the _other_ god, the poor, unassuming, scourged divinity in His beggar-garb. The radiant charioteer above curbed his impatient steeds and gazed down from his serene height upon the conflict, the torturing, silent conflict of suffering upon the bloody battlefield of the timorous earth. Smiling, he shook his divine head, for he could not understand the cause of all this. Why should a god impose upon Himself such misery and humiliation! But he knows that He was a more powerful god, for _he_ was forced to fly from the zenith when the former rose from His grave.--So thought Helios, glancing over at the gentle goddess Selene, whose wan face, paling in his presence, was turned full toward the earth. She could not bear to behold the harrowing spectacle, she was the divinity of peace and slumber, so, averting her mild countenance, she bade Helios farewell and floated away to happier realms.

Blest gods, ye who sit throned in eternal beauty, eternal peace; ye who are untouched by the grief and suffering of the human race, who descend to earth merely to taste the joys of mortals when it pleases ye to add them to your divine delights, look down upon the gods whom sorrowing humanity, laden with the primeval curse, summoned from his heaven to aid, where none of ye aided, to give what none of ye gave, _the heart's blood of love!_ Gaze from your selfish pleasures, ye gay Hellenic deities, behold from your Valhalla, grim divinities of the Norsemen, look hither, ye dull, stupid idols of ancient India, hither where, from love for the human race, a god bleeds upon the martyr's cross--behold and turn pale! For when the monstrous deed is done, and the night has passed. He will cast aside His humble garb and shine in His divine glory. Ye will then be nothing but the rainbow which shimmers in changeful hues above His head! "Excelsior!" echoes a voice through the pure morning-sky and: "Gloria in excelsis, Deo!" peals from the church, as the priests chant the early mass.

An hour later the prince stopped before the door in a carriage to convey the countess to the Passion Theatre, for the way was long and rough.

He gave the Gross sisters strict orders to have everything ready for Countess Wildenau's departure at the close of the performance.

"The carriages must stand packed with the luggage before the theatre when we come out. The new maid must not be late."

Madeleine von Wildenau made no objection to all this, she was very pale and deeply agitated. Ludwig Gross, who was also just going to the theatre, was obliged to enter the carriage, too; the countess would listen to no refusal. The prince looked coldly at him. Ludwig Gross raised his hat, saying courteously:

"May I request an introduction?"

The lady blushed. "Herr Gross, head-master of the drawing-school!" She paused a moment in embarrassment, Ludwig's bronze countenance still retained its expectant expression.

"The Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim," said the prince, relieving the countess' embarrassment, and raising his hat.

The drawing-master's delicate tact instantly perceived Prince Emil's generous intention.

"Pardon me," he said, with a shade of bashfulness, "I did not know that I was in the presence of a gentleman of such high rank--"

"No, no, you were perfectly right," interrupted Prince Emil, who was pleased with the man's modest confidence, and immediately entered into conversation with him. He asked various questions, and Ludwig described how he was frequently compelled to get suitable figures for his tableau from the forests and the fields, because the better educated people all had parts assigned to them, and how difficult it was to work with this untrained material; especially as he had barely two or three minutes to arrange a tableau containing three hundred persons.

The countess gazed absently at the motley throngs surging toward the Passion Theatre. The fresh morning breeze blew into the carriage. All nature was full of gladness, a festal joy which even the countess' richly caparisoned horses seemed to share, for they pranced gaily and dashed swiftly on as if they would fain vie with the sun-god's steeds above. The Bavarian flags on the Passion Theatre fluttered merrily against the blue sky, and now another discharge of cannon announced the commencement of the performance. The carriage made its way with much difficulty through the multitude to the entrance, which was surrounded by natives of Ammergau. Ludwig Gross ordered the driver to stop, and sprang out. All respectfully made way for him, raising their hats: "Ah, Herr Gross! The drawing-master! Good-day!"

"Good-day," replied Ludwig Gross, then unceremoniously giving the countess his arm, requested the prince to follow and led them through several side passages, to which strangers were not admitted, into the space reserved for boxes, where two fine-looking young men, also members of the Gross family, the "ushers" were taking tickets. Ludwig lifted his hat and left them to go to his work. The prince shook hands with him and expressed his thanks. "A cultured man!" he said, after Ludwig had gone. Meanwhile one of the ushers had conducted the countess to her seat.

There directly before her lay the long-desired goal! A huge amphitheatre built in the Greek style. Between the boxes, which overlooked the whole, and the stage, under the open sky, extended a vast space, whose seats rose to the height of a house. The orchestra, too, was roofless, as also were the proscenium and the stage, at whose extreme right and left stood the houses of Pilate and Caiaphas, between which stretched the streets of Jerusalem. The chorus was stationed on the proscenium and here all the great scenes in which the populace took part were performed. The main stage, occupying the centre only, as in the Greek theatre, was a temple-like covered building with a curtain, in a certain sense a theatre within a theatre, where the scenes that required a smaller frame were set. Beyond, the whole was surrounded by the amphitheatre of the lofty mountains gazing down in majestic repose, surmounting and crowning all.

The orchestra was playing the last bars of the overture and the surging and hum of the thousands who were finding their seats had at last ceased. The chorus came forward, all the singers clad in the Greek costume, at their head as choragus Johannes Diemer, arrayed in diadem and toga. A majestic figure of true priestly dignity, he moved across the stage, fully imbued with the spirit of the sublime drama which it was his honorable office to open. Deep silence now reigned throughout the audience. It seemed as if nature herself was listening outside, the whispering morning breeze held its breath, and not a single bird-note was heard. The repose of the Sabbath spread its wings protectingly over the whole scene, that nothing should disturb this consecrated mood.

As the stately figures advanced wearing their costly robes with as much dignity as if they had never been clad in any other garments, or would be forced again to exchange them for the coarse torn blouse of toil; as they began to display the art acquired with such self-sacrificing devotion after a wearisome day of labor, and the choragus in the purest, noblest intonation began the first lines:

"Sink prostrate, overwhelmed with sacred awe, Oh, human race, bowed by the curse of God!"

the countess' heart was suddenly stirred by a new emotion and tears filled her eyes.

"Eternal God, Thy stammering children hear, For children's language, aye, is stammering."

In these words the devout lips expressed the sacred meaning underlying the childish pastime, and those who heard it feel themselves once more children--children of the one omnipresent Father.

The prologue was over. The curtain of the central stage rolled up, and the first tableau, the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise, was revealed. Countess Madeleine gazed at it with kindly eyes, for Ludwig Gross' refined artistic instinct was visible to her, his firm hand had shaped the rude material into these graceful lines. A second tableau followed--the Adoration of the Cross. An empty cross, steeped in light, stood on a height worshipped by groups of children and angels. The key-note was thus given and the drama began.--The first scene was before the temple at Jerusalem--the Saviour's entry was expected. Madeleine von Wildenau's heart throbbed heavily. She did not herself know the cause of her emotion--it almost robbed her of breath--will it be _he_ whom she expects, to whom she is bound by some incomprehensible, mysterious spell? Will she find him?

Shouts of "Hosanna!" echoed from the distance--an increasing tumult was audible. A crowd of people, rejoicing and singing praises, poured out of the streets of Jerusalem--the first heralds of the procession appeared, breathlessly announcing His approach.

An indescribable fear overpowered the countess--but it now seemed to her as if she did not dread the man whom she expected to see, but Him he was to personate. The audience, too, became restless, a vibrating movement ran like a faint whisper through the multitude: "He is coming!"

The procession now poured upon the stage, a surging mass--passionately excited people waving palms, and in their midst, mounted on a miserable beast of burden--the Master of the World.

The countess scarcely dared to look, she feared the dismounting, which might shock her aesthetic sense. But lightly as a thought, with scarcely a movement, he had already slipped from the animal, not one of the thousands saw how.

"It is he!" Madeleine's brain whirled, an unspeakable joy overwhelmed her: "When shall I behold thee face to face!" her own words, spoken the evening before, rang in her ears and--the realization was standing before her.

"The Christ!"--a thrill of reverence stirred the throng. Aye, it was He, from head to foot! He had not uttered a word, yet all hearts sank conquered at his feet. Aye, that was the glance, the dignity, the calmness of a God! That was the soul which embraced and cherished a world--that was the heart of love which sacrificed itself for man--died upon the cross.

Now the lips parted and, like an airy, winged genius the words soared upward: A voice like an angel's shouting through the universe: "Peace, peace on earth!"--now clear and resonant as Easter bells, now gentle and tender as a mother's soothing song beside the bed of her sick child. "Source of love--thou art He!"

Mute, motionless, as if transfigured, the countess gazed at the miracle--and with her thousands in the same mood. But from her a secret bond stretched to him--from her alone among the thousands--a prophetic, divine bond, woven by their yearning souls on that night after she had beheld the face from which the God so fervently implored now smiled consent.

The drama pursued its course.

Christ looked around and perceived the traders with their wares, and the tables of the money-changers in the court of the temple. As cloud after cloud gradually rises in the blue sky and conceals the sun, noble indignation darkened the mild countenance, and the eyes flashed with a light which reminded Helios, watching above, of the darts of Zeus.

"My House," saith the Lord, "shall be called a house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves!" And as though His wrath was a power, which emanating from Him acted without any movement of His, a hurricane seemed to sweep over the stands of the traders, while not a single vehement motion destroyed the calmness of the majestic figure. The tables were overthrown, the money rolled on the ground, the cages of the doves burst open, and the frightened birds soared with arrowy speed over the heads of the spectators. The traders raged and shrieked, "My doves, my doves! My money!" and rushed to save the silver coins and scattered wares. But He stood motionless amid the tumult, like the stone of which He said: "Whosoever shall fall upon that stone shall be broken; but on whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder."

Then, with royal dignity. He swung the scourge over the backs bowed to seize their paltry gains. "Take these things hence, make not my Father's house a house of merchandise!" He did not strike, yet it seemed as though the scourge had fallen, for the dealers fled in wild confusion before the uplifted hand, and terror seized the Pharisees. They perceived that He who stood before them was strong enough to crush them all! His breath had the might of the storm, His glance was consuming flame--His lash felled without striking--He need only will, and "in three days" He would build a new temple as He boasted. Roaring like the sea in a tempest, the exulting populace surrounded Him, yielding to His sway as the waves recede before the breath of the mighty ruler.--Aye, this was the potent spirit of the Jehovah of the Jews, the Zeus of the Greeks, the Jupiter of the Romans. This man was the Son of the God who created Heaven and earth, and it would be an easy matter for the Heir of this power to crush the Pharisees without stirring a finger--if He desired, but that was the point; it was _not_ His will, for His mission was a different one! The head once more drooped humbly, the brow, corrugated with anger, smoothed. "I have done my Father's bidding--I have saved the honor of His House!" The storm died away into a whisper, and the mild gaze rested forgivingly upon His foes.

The countess' virile heart almost rebelled against this humility, and would fain have cried out: "Thou _art_ the Son of God, help Thyself!" Her sense of justice, formed according to human ideas, was opposed to this toleration, this sacrifice of the most sacred rights! Like Helios in the vault above, she could not understand the grandeur, the divinity of self humiliation, of suffering truth and purity to be judged by falsehood and hypocrisy--instead of using His own power to destroy them.

As if the personator of Christ suspected her thoughts he suddenly fixed his glance, above the thousands of heads, directly upon her and like a divine message the words fell from his lips: "But in many hearts, day will soon dawn!" Then, turning with indescribable gentleness to His disciples. He added: "Come, let us go into the temple and there worship the Father!" He walked toward it, yet it did not seem as if his feet moved; He vanished from the spectators' eyes noiselessly, gradually, like the fleeting of a happy moment.

The countess covered her eyes with her hand--she felt as if she were dreaming a sadly beautiful dream. The prince watched her silently, but intently. Nods and gestures of greeting came from the boxes on all sides--from the duchess, the diplomatic corps, and numerous acquaintances who happened to be there--but the countess saw nothing.

The drama went on. It was the old story of the warfare of baseness against nobility, falsehood against truth. The Pharisees availed themselves of the injury to the tradesmen's interests to make them their allies. The populace, easily deluded, was incited against the agitator from "Galilee," who wished to rob them of the faith of their fathers and drive the dealers from the temple. So the conspiracy arose and swelled to an avalanche to crush the sacred head! Christ had dealt a rude blow to all that was base in human nature, but baseness was the greater power, to which even God must succumb while He remained a dweller upon earth. But, even in yielding, He conquered--death bestowed the palm of victory!

Between the first and second act was a tableau, "Joseph sold by his Brethren." With thoughtful discrimination every important incident in the Play was suggested by a corresponding event in the Old Testament, represented by a tableau, in order to show the close connection between the Old and the New Testament and verify the words: "that all things which are written may be fulfilled."

At last the curtain rose again and revealed the Sanhedrim assembled for judgment. Here sat the leaders of the people of Israel, and also of Oberammergau. In the midst was Caiaphas, the High-priest, the Chief of the Sanhedrim, the burgomaster of Ammergau and chief manager of the Passion Play. At his right and left sat the oldest members of the community of Ammergau, an old man with a remarkably fine face and long white beard, as Annas, and the sacristan, an impressive figure, as Nathanael. On both sides, in a wide circle, were the principal men in the parish robed as priests and Pharisees. What heads! What figures! The burgomaster, Caiaphas, rose and, with a brief address, opened the discussion. Poor Son of God, how wilt Thou fare in the presence of this mighty one of earth? The burgomaster was the type of the fanatical, ambitious priest, not a blind, dull zealot--nay, he was the representative of the aristocratic hierarchy, the distinguished men of the highest intelligence and culture. A face rigid as though chiselled from stone, yet animated by an intellect of diabolical superiority, which would never confess itself conquered, which no terror could intimidate, no marvel dazzel, no suffering move. Tall and handsome in the very flower of manhood, with eyes whose glances pierced like javelins, a tiara on his haughty head, robed in all the pomp of Oriental priestly dignity, every clanking ornament a symbol of his arrogant, iron nature, every motion of his delicate white hands, every fold of his artistically draped mantle, every hair of his flowing beard a proof of that perfect conscious mastery of outward ceremonial peculiar to those who are accustomed to play a shrewdly planned part before the public. Thus he stood, terrible yet fascinating, repellent yet attractive, nay to the trained eye of an artist who could appreciate this masterly blending of the most contradictory influences, positively enthralling.

This was the effect produced upon Countess Wildenau. The feeling of indication roused by the incomprehensible humiliation of the divine Martyr almost tempted her to side with the resolute foe who manfully defended his own honor with his god's. A noble-hearted woman cannot withstand the influence of genuine intellectual manfulness, and until the martyrdom of Christ became _heroism_, the firm, unyielding high-priest exerted an irresistible charm over the countess. The conscious mastery, the genius of the performer, the perfection of his acting, roused and riveted the artistic interest of the cultivated woman, and as, with the people of Ammergau, the individual and the actor are not two distinct personages, as among professional artists, she knew that the man before her also possessed a lofty nature, and the nimbus of Ammergau constantly increased, the spirit ruling the whole obtained still greater sway. The sacristan was also an imposing figure as Nathanael, the second high-priest, who, with all the power of Pharisaical superiority and sophistry, appeared as Christ's accuser. The eloquence of these two judges was overpowered, and into the surging waves of passion, Annas, in his venerable dignity, dropped with steady hand the sharp anchor of cold, pitiless resolve. An imposing, sinister assembly was this great Sanhedrim, and every spectator involuntarily felt the dread always inspired by a circle of stern, cruel despots. Poor Lamb, what will be Thy fate?

Destiny pursued its course. In the next act Christ announced His approaching death to the disciples. Now it seemed as though He bore upon His brow an invisible helm of victory, on which the dove of the Holy Spirit rested with outspread wings. Now He was the hero--the hero who _chose_ death. Yet meekness was diffused throughout His whole bearing, was the impress of His being; the meekness which spares others but does not tremble for itself. A new perception dawned upon the countess: to be strong yet gentle was the highest nobility of the soul--and as here also the character and its personator were one, she knew that the men before her possessed these attributes: strength and gentleness. Now her defiant spirit at last melted and she longed to take Him to her heart to atone for the injustice of the human race. She thanked Simon for receiving the condemned man under his hospitable roof.

"Aye, love Him--I, too, love Him?" she longed to cry out to those who were ministering to Him. But when Mary Magdalene touched and anointed Him she averted her eyes, for she grudged her the privilege and thought of her poor, beautiful penitent at home. As He uttered the words: "Rise, Magdalene. Darkness is gathering, and the wintry storms are raging. Yet be comforted! In the early morning, in the Spring garden, thou wilt see me again!" tears streamed form her eyes; "When will the morning dawn that I shall greet Thee--in the Spring garden, redeeming love?" asked a voice in her heart.

But when Mary appeared and Christ took leave of His mother--when the latter sank upon the breast of her divine son and He consoled her with a voice whose sweetness no ear had ever heard equalled, a feeling which she had never experienced took possession of her: it was neither envy nor jealousy--only a sorrowful longing: "If I were only in her place!"

And when Christ said: "My hour is come; now is my soul troubled; and what shall I say? Father, save me from this hour: but for this cause came I unto this hour!" and Mary, remembering Simeon's words, cried: "Simeon, thy prediction--'a sword shall pierce through thy own soul, also'--is now fulfilled!" the countess, for the first time, understood the meaning of the pictures of Mary with the seven swords in her heart; her own was bleeding from the keenness of her anguish. Now, overpowered with emotion, He again extended His arms: "Mother, mother, receive thy son's fervent gratitude for all the love and faith which thou hast bestowed in the thirty-three years of my life: Farewell, dear mother!"

The countess felt as if she would no longer endure it--that she must sink in a sea of grief and yearning.

"My son, where shall I see Thee again?" asked Mary.

"Yonder, dear mother, where the words of the Scripture shall be fulfilled: 'He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth.'" Then, while the others were weeping over the impending calamity, Christ said: "Be not overcome in the first struggle. Trust in me." And, as He spoke, the loving soul knew that it might rest on Him and be secure.

He moved away. Serene, noble, yet humble, He went to meet His death.

The curtain fell--but this time there was no exchange of greetings from the boxes, the faces of their occupants were covered to conceal the tears of which they were ashamed, yet could not restrain.

The countess and her companion remained silent. Madeleine's forehead rested on her hand--the prince was secretly wiping his eyes.

"People of God, lo, thy Saviour is near! The Redeemer, long promised, hath come!" sang the chorus, and the curtain rising, showed Christ and his disciples on the way to Jerusalem. It was the moment that Christ wept over Jerusalem. Tears of the keenest anguish which can pierce the heart of a God, tears for the sins of the world! "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, if thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things which belongs unto thy peace! But now they are hid from thine eyes."

The disciples entreated their Master not to enter the hostile city and thus avoid the crime which it was destined to commit. Or to enter and show Himself in His power, to judge and to reward.

"Children, what ye desire will be done in its time, but my ways are ordered by my Father, and thus saith the Lord: 'My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.'"

And, loyal and obedient, He followed the path of death. Judas alone lingered behind, resolving to leave the fallen greatness which promised no earthly profit and would bring danger and disgrace upon its adherents. In this mood he was met by Dathan, Andreas Gross, who was seeking a tool for the vengeance of the money changers. Finding it in Judas, he took him before the Sanhedrim.

An impressive and touching tableau now introduced a new period, the gathering of manna in the wilderness, which refreshed the starving children of Israel. A second followed: The colossal bunch of grapes from Canaan. "The Lord miraculously fed the multitude in the desert with the manna and rejoiced their hearts with the grapes of Canaan, but Jesus offers us a richer banquet from Heaven. From the mystery of His body and blood flows mercy and salvation!" sang the chorus. The curtain rose again, Christ was at supper with His disciples. He addressed them in words of calm farewell. But they did not yet fully understand, for they asked who would be _first_ in His heavenly kingdom?

His only answer was to lay aside His upper garment, gird, with divine dignity, a cloth about His loins, and kneel to perform for the disciples the humblest service--_the washing of their feet_.

The human race looked on in breathless wonder--viewless bands of angels soared downward and the demons of pride and defiance in human nature fled and hid themselves in the inmost recesses of their troubled hearts.

Aye, the strong soul of the woman, which had at first rebelled against the patience of the suffering God--now understood it and to her also light came, as He had promised and, by the omnipotent feeling which urged her to the feet of Him who knelt rendering the lowliest service to the least of His disciples, she perceived the divinity of _humility_!

It was over. He had risen and put on His upper garment; He stood with His figure drawn up to His full height and gazed around the circle: "Now ye are clean, but not _all_!"--and His glance rested mournfully on Peter, who before the cock crew, would deny Him thrice, and on Judas, who would betray Him for thirty pieces of silver.

Then He again took His seat and, as the presentiment of approaching death transfigures even the most commonplace mortal and illumines the struggling soul at the moment of its separation from the body, so the _God_ transfigured the earthly form of the "Son of Man" and appeared more and more plainly on the pallid face, ere he left the frail husk which He had chosen for His transitory habitation. And as the dying man distributes his property among his heirs, _He_ bequeathed His. But He had nothing to give, save Himself. As the cloud dissolves into millions of raindrops which the thirsting earth drinks, He divided Himself into millions of atoms which, in the course of the ages, were to refresh millions of human beings with the banquet of love. His body and His blood were his legacy. He divided it into countless portions, to distribute it among countless heirs, yet it remained _one_ and the _part_ is to every one _the whole_. For as an element remains a great unity, no matter into how many atoms it may dissolve--as water is always water whether in single drops or in the ocean--fire always fire in sparks or a conflagration--so Christ is _always Christ_ in the drops of the chalice and the particles of the bread, as well as in His original person, for He, _too_, is an element, _the element of divinity_.

As kindred kneel around the bedside of a loved one who is dying, bedew his hand with tears, and utter the last entreaty: "Forgive us, if we have ever wounded you?" the thousands of spectators longed to kneel, and there was not one who did not yearn to press his lips to the wonderful hand which was distributing the bread, and cry: "Forgive us our sins." But as reverence for the dying restrains loud lamentations, the spectators controlled themselves in order not to sob aloud and thus disturb the divine peace throned upon the Conqueror's brow.

Destiny now relentlessly pursued its course. Judas sold his master for thirty pieces of silver, and they were paid to him before the Sanhedrim. The pieces of silver rang on the stone table upon which they were counted out. It seemed as if the clear sound was sharply piercing the world, like the edge of a scythe destined to mow down the holiest things.

The priests exulted, there was joy in the camp of the foes! All that human arrogance and self-conceit could accomplish, raised its head triumphantly in Caiaphas. The regal priest stood so firmly upon the height of his secular power that nothing could overthrow him, and--Jesus of Nazareth must die!

So the evening came when Christ went with the twelve disciples to the Mount of Olives to await His doom.

"Father, the hour is come; glorify thy Son, that thy Son may also glorify thee! I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do--I have manifested thy name unto men! Father, sanctify them through thy truth; that they all may be one, as thou, Father, art in me and I in thee!"

He climbed the lonely mount in the garden of olive trees to pass through the last agony, the agony of death, which seized upon even the Son of God so long as He was still bound by the laws of the human body.

"Father, if thou be willing, let this cup pass from me!"

Here Freyer's acting reached its height; it was no longer semblance, but reality. The sweat fell in burning drops from his brow, and tears streamed from his eyes. "Yet not _my_ will, but _Thine_ be done--Thy sacred will!" Clasping his trembling hands, he flung himself prone on the ground, hiding his tear-stained face, "Father--Thy son--hear Him!"

The throng breathed more and more heavily, the tears flowed faster. The heart of all humanity was touched with the anguished cry: "Oh, sins of humanity, ye crush me--oh, the terrible burden--the bitter cup!"

With this anguish the Son of God first drew near to the human race, in this suffering He first bent down to mortals that they might embrace Him lovingly like a mortal brother. And it was so at this moment, also! They would fain have dragged Him from the threatening cross, defended Him with their own bodies, purchased his release at any cost--too late, _this_ repentance should have come several centuries earlier.

The hour of temptation was over. The disciples had slept and left him alone--but the angel of the Lord had comforted Him, the angel whom God sends to every one who is deserted by men. He was himself again--the Conqueror of the World!

Judas came with the officers and pressed upon the sweet mouth on which the world would fain hang in blissful self-forgetfulness--the traitor's kiss.

"Judas, can you touch those lips and not fall at the feet of Him you have betrayed?" cried a voice in Madeleine von Wildenau's heart. "Can you _kiss_ the lips which so patiently endure the death-dealing caress, and not find your hate transformed to love?" Ah, only the divine can recognize the divine, only sympathetic natures attract one another! Judas is the symbol of the godless world, which would no longer perceive God's presence, even if He came on earth once more. The soldiers, brawny fellows, fell to the ground as He stood before them with the words: "I am Jesus of Nazareth!" and He was forced to say: "Rise! Fear ye not!" that they might accomplish their work--but Judas remained unmoved and delivered Him up.

Christ was a prisoner and descended step by step into the deepest ignominy. But no matter through what mire of baseness and brutality they dragged Him, haling Him from trial to trial--nothing robbed Him of the majesty of the Redeemer! And if His speech had been full of power, so was His silence! Before the Sanhedrim, before Herod, and finally before Pilate, _He_ was the king, and the mighty ones of earth were insignificant in _His_ presence.

"Who knows whether this man is not the son of some god?" murmured the polytheistic Romans--and shrank from the mystery which surrounded the silent One.

The impression here was produced solely by Freyer's imposing calmness and unearthly eyes. The glance he cast at Herod when the latter ordered him to perform a miracle--darken the judgment chamber or transform a roll of papyrus into a serpent--that one glance, full of dignity and gentleness, fixed upon the poor, short-sighted child of the dust was a greater miracle than all the conjuring tricks of the Egyptian Magicians.

But this very silence, this superiority, filled the priest with furious rage and hastened His doom, which He disdained to stay by a single word.

True, Pilate strove to save Him. The humane Roman, with his aristocratic bearing, as Thomas Rendner personated him with masterly skill, formed a striking contrast to the gloomy, fanatical priests, but he was not the man for violent measures, and the furious leaders understood how to present this alternative. The desire to conciliate, the refuge of all weak souls which shrink in terror from catastrophes, had already wrested from him a shameful concession--he had suffered the Innocent One to be delivered to the scourge.

With clenched teeth the spectators beheld the chaste form, bound to the stake and stained with blood, quiver beneath the lashes of the executioner, without a murmur of complaint from the silent lips. And when He had "had enough," as they phrased it, they placed him on a chair, threw a royal mantle about Him, and placed a sceptre of reeds in the hand of the mock-king. But He remained mute. The tormentors grew more and more enraged--they wanted to have satisfaction, to gloat over the moans of the victim--they dealt Him a blow in the face, then a second one. Christ did not move. They thrust Him from the chair so that He fell on the ground--no one ever forgot the beautiful, pathetic figure--but He was still silent! Then one of the executioners brought a crown made of huge thorns; He was raised again and the martyr's diadem was placed upon His brow. The sharp thorns resisted, they would not fit the noble head, so His tormentors took two sticks laid cross-ways, and with them forced the spiked coronals so low on His forehead that drops of blood flowed! Christ quivered under the keen agony--but--He was silent! Then He was dragged out of His blood, a spectacle to the populace.

Again Helios above gave the rein to his radiant coursers--he thought of all the horrors in the history of his divine House, of the Danaides, of the chained Prometheus, and of others also, but he could recall nothing comparable to _this_, and _loathed the human race_! Averting his face, he guided his weary steeds slowly downward from the zenith.

The evening breeze blew chill upon the scene of agony.

A furious tumult filled the streets of Jerusalem. The priests were leading the raging mob to the governor's house--fanning their wrath to flame with word and gesture. Caiaphas, Nathanael, the fanatics of Judaism--Annas and Ezekiel, each at the head of a mob, rushed from three streets in an overwhelming concourse. The populace surged like the angry sea, and unchaining yet dominating the elements with word and glance the lofty figure of Caiaphas, the high priest, towered in their midst.

"Shake it off! Cast from you the yoke of the tempter!"

"He has scorned Moses and the prophets--He has blasphemed God--to the cross with the false Messiah!"

"May a curse rest on every one who does not vote for his death--let him be cut off from the hereditary rights of our fathers!"

Thus the four leaders cast their watchword like firebrands among the throngs, and the blaze spread tumultuously.

"The Nazarene must die--we demand judgment," roared the people. New bands constantly flocked in. "Oh, fairest day of Israel! Children, be resolute! Threaten a general insurrection. The governor wished to hear the voice of the people--let him hear it!" shrieked Caiaphas, and his passion stirred the mob to fiercer fury. All pressed forward to the house of Pilate. The doors opened and the governor came out. The handsome, classic countenance of the Roman expressed deep contempt, as he surveyed the frantic mob. Behind him appeared the embodiment of sorrow--the picture of all pictures--the Ecce Homo--which all the artists of the world have striven to represent, yet never exhausted the subject. Here it stood personified--before the eyes of men, and even the governor's voice trembled as he pointed to it.

"Behold, _what_ a man!"

"Crucify him!" was the answer.

Pilate endeavored to give the fury of the mob another victim: the criminal Barabbas was brought forth and confronted with Christ. The basest of human beings and the noblest! But the spectacle did not move them, for the patience and serenity of the Martyr expressed a grandeur which shamed them all, and _this_ was the intolerable offense! The sight of the scourged, bleeding body did not cool their vengeance because they saw that the spirit was unbroken! It _must_ be quelled, that it might not rise in judgment against them, for they had gone too far, the ill-treated victim was a reproach to them--he could not be suffered to live longer.

"Release Barabbas! To death with the Nazarene, crucify him!"

Vainly the governor strove to persuade the people. The cool, circumspect man was too weak to defy these powers of hatred--he would fain save Christ, yet was unwilling to drive the fanatics to extremes. So he yielded, but the grief with which he did so, "to avert a greater misfortune," absolved him from the terrible guilt whose curse he cast upon the leaders' head.

The expression with which he pronounced the sentence, uttered the words: "Then take ye Him and crucify Him!" voices the grief of the man of culture for eternal beauty.

The bloodthirsty mob burst into a yell of exultation when their victim was delivered to them--now they could cool their vengeance on Him! "To Golgotha--hence with him to the place of skulls!"

Christ--and Thy sacrifice is for _these_. Alas, the day will come, though perchance not for thousands of years, when Thou wilt perceive that they were not _worthy_ of it. But that will be the day of judgment!

A crowd surged though the streets of Jerusalem--in their midst the condemned man, burdened with the instrument of his own martyrdom.

In one corner amid the populace stood Mary, surrounded by a group of friends, and the mother beheld her son urged forward, like a beast which, when it falls, is forced up with lashes and pressed on till it sinks lifeless.

High above in the vaulted heavens, veiled by the gathering dude of evening, the gods whispered to one another with secret horror as they watched the unprecedented sight. Often as they might behold it, they could never believe it.

The procession stopped before a house--Christ sank to the earth.

A man came out and thrust Him from the threshold.

"Hence, there is no place here for you to rest."

Ahasuerus! The tortured sufferer looked at him with the gaze of a dying deer--a single mute glance of agony, but the man on whom it fell nevermore found peace on earth, but was driven from every resting-place, from land to land, from one spot to another--hunted on ceaselessly through the centuries--wandering forever.

"He will die on the road"--cried the first executioner, Christ had dragged Himself a few steps forward, and fell for the second time.

"Drive him on with blows!" shrieked the Pharisees and the people.

"Oh! where is the sorrow like unto my sorrow?" moaned Mary, covering her face.

"He is too weak, some one must help him," said the executioner. He could not be permitted to die there--the people must see Him on the pillory.

His face was covered with sweat and blood--tears flowed from His eyes, but the mute lips uttered no word of complaint. Then His friends ventured to go and render whatever aid was permitted. Veronica offered Him her handkerchief to wipe His face, and when He returned it, it bore in lines of sweat and blood, the portrait which, throughout the ages, has exerted the silent magic of suffering in legend and in art.

Simon of Cyrene took the cross from the sinking form to bear it for Him to Golgotha, and the women of Jerusalem wept. Christ was standing by the roadside exhausted, but when He saw the women with their children, the last words of sorrow for their lost ones rose from His heart to His lips:

"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and your children."

"For, behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say: Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never gave suck!"

"Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us; and to the hills. Cover us."

"For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the dry?"

"Drive the women away! Spare him no longer--hence to the place of execution!" the priests commanded.

"To Golgotha--Crucify him!" roared the people. The women were driven away; another message from the governor was unheeded, the procession moved steadily on to death.

But Mary did not leave Him. With the few faithful friends she joined her son's march of suffering, for the steadfastness of maternal love was as great as her anguish.

There was a whispering and a murmuring in the air as if the Valkyries and the gods of Greece were consulting whether they should aid the Son of Man. But they were powerless; the sphere of the Christian's god was closed against them.

The scene changed. The chorus, robed in sable mourning cloaks, appeared and began the dirge for the dying God. The simple chant recalled an ancient Anglo-Saxon song of the cross, composed in the seventh century by the skald Caedmon, and which for more than a thousand years lay buried in the mysterious spell of the rune.

[4]Methought I saw a Tree in mid-air hang Of trees the brightest--mantling o'er with light-streaks; A beacon stood it, glittering with gold.

All the angels beheld it, Angel hosts in beauty created. Yet stood it not a pillory of shame. Thither turned the gaze Of spirits blessed, And of earthly pilgrims Of noblest nature. This tree of victory Saw I, the sin-laden one.

Yet 'mid the golden glitter Were traces of honor. Adown the right side Red drops were trickling. Startled and shuddering Noted I the hovering vision Suddenly change its hue.

Long lay I pondering Gazing full sadly At the Saviour's Rood. When lo, on my ear Fell the murmur of speech; These are the words The forest uttered:

"Many a year ago, Yet still my mind holds it, Low was I felled. The dim forest within Hacked from my roots, Haled on by rude woodmen Bracing sinewy shoulders Up the steep mountain side, Till aloft on the summit Firmly they fastened me.

"I spied the Frey[5] of man with eager haste Approach to mount me; neither bend nor break I durst, for so it was decreed above Though earth about me shook.

"Up-girded him then the young hero, That was God Almighty, Strong and steady of mood, Stept he on the high gallows: Fearless amongst many beholders For he would save mankind. Trembled I when that 'beorn' climbed me, But I durst not bow to earth."

There hung the Lord of Hosts Swart clouds veiled the corpse, The sun's light vanished 'Neath shadows murk. While in silence drear All creation wept The fall of their king. Christ was on Rood-- Thither from afar Men came hastening To aid the noble one.

Everything I saw, Sorely was I With sorrows harrowed, Yet humbly I inclined To the hands of his servants Striving much to aid them.

Now from the Rood The mighty God, Spear-pierced and blood-besprent, Gently men lowered; They laid him down limb-weary, They stood at the lifeless head, Gazing at Heaven's Lord, And he there rests awhile, Weary after his mickle death-fight.

Such was the paean of Caedmon, mighty among the writers of runes, in the seventh century after the Saviour's death. Now, twelve centuries later, it lived again, and the terrible event was once more enacted, just as the skald had sung, just as it happened nearly two thousand years ago.

What is space, what is time to aught that is rooted in love?

The dirge of the chorus had died away. A strange sound behind the curtain accompanied the last verses--the sound of hammering--could it be? No, it would be too horrible. The audience heard, yet _would_ not hear. A deathlike stillness pervaded the theatre--the blows of the hammer became more and more distinct--the curtain rolled upward--there He lay with His feet toward the spectators, flat upon the cross. And the executioners, with heavy blows, drove nails through His limbs; they pierced the kind hands which had never done harm to any living creature, but wherever they were gently laid, healed all wounds and stilled all griefs; the feet which had borne the divine form so lightly that it seemed to float over the burning sand of the land and the surging waves of the sea, always on a mission of love. Now He lay in suffering on the ground, stretched upon the accursed timbers--half benumbed, like a stricken stag. At the right and left stood the lower crosses of the two criminals. These men merely had their arms thrown over the cross-beams and tied with ropes, only the feet were fastened with nails. Christ alone was nailed by both hands and feet, because the Pharisees were tortured by a foreboding that He could not be wholly killed. Had they dared, they would have torn Him to pieces, and scattered the fragments to the four winds, in order to be sure that He would not rise on the third day, as He had predicted.

The executioners had completed the binding of the thieves. "Now the King of the Jews must be raised."

"Lift the cross! Take hold!" the captain commanded. The spectators held their breath, every heart stood still! The four executioners grasped it with their brawny arms. "Up! Don't let go!"

The cross is ponderous, the men pant, bracing their shoulders against it--their veins swell--another jerk--it sways--"Hold firm! Once more--put forth your strength!" and in a wide sweep it moved upward--all cowered back shuddering at the horrible spectacle.

"It is not, It cannot be!" Yet it is, it can be! Horror thrilled the spectators, their limbs trembled. One grasped another, as if to hold themselves from falling. It was rising, the cross was rising above the world! Higher--nearer! "Brace against it--don't let go!"

It stood erect and was firm.

There hung the divine figure of sorrow, pallid and wan. The nails were driven through the bleeding hands and feet--and the eye which would fain deny was forced to witness it, the heart that would have prevented, was compelled to bear it. But the scene could be endured no longer, the grief restrained with so much difficulty found vent in loud sobs, and the hands trembling with a feverish chill were clasped with the _same_ feeling of adoring love. Unspeakable compassion was poured forth in ceaseless floods of tears, and rose gathering in a cloud of pensive melancholy around the head of the Crucified One to soothe His mortal anguish. By degrees their eyes became accustomed to the scene and gained strength to gaze at it. Divine grace pervaded the slender body, and--as eternal beauty reconciles Heaven and hell and transfigures the most terrible things--horror gradually merged into devout admiration of the perfect human beauty revealed in chaste repose and majesty before their delighted gaze. The countess had clasped her hands over her breast. The world lay beneath her as if she was floating above with Him on the cross. She no longer knew whether he was a _man_ or Christ Himself--she only knew that the universe contained _nothing_ save that form.

Her eyes were fixed upon the superhuman vision, tear after tear trickled down her cheeks. The prince gazed anxiously at her, but she did not notice it--she was entranced. If she could but die now--die at the foot of the cross, let her soul exhale like a cloud of incense, upward to Him.

Darkness was gathering. The murmuring and whispering in the air drew nearer--was it the Valkyries, gathering mournfully around the hero who scorned the aid. Was it the wings of the angel of death? Or was it a flock of the sacred birds which, legend relates, strove to draw out the nails that fastened the Saviour to the cross until their weak bills were crooked and they received the name of "cross-bills."

The sufferer above was calm and silent. Only His lambent eyes spoke, spoke to those invisible powers hovering around Him in the final hour.

Beneath His cross the soldiers were casting lots for His garments--the priests were exulting--the brute cynicism was watching with wolfish greed for the victim to fall into its clutches, while shouting with jeering mocking: If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross!

He trusted in God; let Him deliver Him now, if He will have Him!--

"Thou that destroyest the temple and buildest it in three days, save thyself. Show thy power, proud King of the Jews!"

The tortured sufferer painfully turned His head.

"Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.--"

Then one of the malefactors, even in his own death agony, almost mocked Him, but the other rebuked him; "We receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss!" Then he added beseechingly: "Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom."

Christ made the noble answer: "Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou be with me in paradise."

There was a fresh roar of mockery from the Pharisees. "He cannot save himself, yet promises the kingdom of heaven to others."

But the Saviour no longer heard, His senses were failing; He bent His head toward Mary and John. "Woman, behold thy son! Son, behold thy mother!"

The signs of approaching death appeared. He grew restless--struggled for breath, His tongue clung to His palate.

"I thirst."

The sponge dipped in vinegar was handed to him on a long spear.

He sipped but was not refreshed. The agony had reached its climax: "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" He cried from the depths of His breaking heart, a wonderful waving motion ran through the noble form in the last throes of death. Then, with a long sigh, He murmured in the tones of an AEolian harp: "It is finished! Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!" gently bowed his head and expired.

A crashing reverberation shook the earth. Helios' chariot rolled thundering into the sea. The gods fled, overwhelmed and scattered by the hurrying hosts of heaven. Dust whirled upward from the ground and smoke from the chasms, darkening the air. The graves opened and sent forth their inmates. In the mighty anguish of love, the Father rends the earth as He snatches from it the victim He has too long left to pitiless torture! The false temple was shattered, the veil rent--and amid the flames of Heaven the Father's heart goes forth to meet the maltreated, patient, obedient Son.

"Come, thou poor martyr!" echoed yearningly through the heavens. "Come, thou poor martyr!" repeated every spectator below.

Yet they were still compelled to see the beloved body pierced with a sharp lance till the hot blood gushed forth--and it seemed as if the thrust entered the heart of the entire world! They were still forced to hear the howling of the wolves disputing over the sacred corpse--but at last the tortured soul was permitted to rest.

The governor's hand had protected the lifeless body and delivered it to His followers.

The multitude dispersed, awe-stricken by the terrible portents--the priests, pale with terror, fled to their shattered temple. Golgotha became empty. The jeers and reviling had died away, the tumult in nature had subsided--and the sacred stillness of evening brooded over those who remained. "He has fulfilled His task--He has entered into the rest of the Father." The drops of blood fell noiselessly from the Redeemer's heart upon the sand. Nothing was heard save the low sobbing of the women at the foot of the cross.

Then pitying love approached, and never has a paean of loyalty been sung like that which the next hour brought. The first blades were now appearing of that love whose seed has spread throughout the world!

Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus came with ladders and tools to take down the body.

Ascending, they wound about the lifeless form long bands of white linen, whose ends they flung down from the cross. These were grasped by the friends below as a counterpoise to lower it gently down. Joseph and Nicodemus now began to draw out the nails with pincers; the cracking and splintering of the wood was heard, so firm was the iron.

Mary sat on a stone, waiting resignedly, with clasped hands, for her son. "Noble men, bring me my child's body soon!" she pleaded softly.

The women spread a winding sheet at her feet to receive it.

At last the nails were drawn out and--

"Now from the rood The mighty God Men gently lowered."

Cautiously one friend laid the loosened, rigid arms of the dead form upon the other's shoulders, that they might not fall suddenly, Joseph of Arimathea clasped the body: "Sweet, sacred burden, rest upon my shoulders."

He descended the ladder with it. Half carried, half lowered in the bands, the lifeless figure slides to the foot of the instrument of martyrdom.

Nicodemus extended his arms to him: "Come, sacred corpse of my only friend, let me receive you."

They bore Him to Mary--

"They laid Him down limb-weary They stood at the lifeless head."

that the son might rest once more in the mother's lap.

She clasped in her arms the wounded body of the son born in anguish the second time.

Magdalene knelt beside it. "Let me kiss once more the hand which has so often blessed me." And with chaste fervor the Penitent's lips touched the cold, pierced hand of the corpse.

Another woman flung herself upon Him. "Dearest Master, one more tear upon Thy lifeless body!" And the sobbing whisper of love sounded sweet and soothing like vesper-bells after a furious storm.

But the men stood devoutly silent:

"Gazing at Heaven's Lord, And He there rests awhile Weary after his mickle death-fight."

CHAPTER VIII.

FREYER.

The Play was over. "Christ is risen!" He had burst the sepulchre and hurled the guards in the dust by the sight of His radiant apparition. He had appeared to the Penitent as a simple gardener "early in the morning," as He had promised, and at last had been transfigured and had risen above the world, bearing in His hand the standard of victory.

The flood of human beings poured out of the close theatre into the open air. Not loudly and noisily, as they had come--no, reverently and gravely, as a funeral train disperses after the obsequies of some noble man; noiselessly as the ebbing tide recedes after flood raised by a storm. These were the same people, yet they _returned_ in a far different mood.

The same vehicles in which yesterday the travelers had arrived in so noisy a fashion, now bore them away, but neither shouts nor cracking of whips was heard--the drivers knew that they must behave as if their carriages were filled with wounded men.

And this was true. There was scarcely one who did not suffer as if the spear which had pierced the Saviour's heart had entered his own, who did not feel the wounds of the Crucified One in his own hands and feet! The grief which the people took with them was grand and godlike, and they treasured it carefully, they did not desire to lose any portion of it, for--we love the grief we feel for one beloved--and to-day they had learned to love Christ.

So they went homeward.

The last carriages which drew up before the entrance were those of the countess and her friends. The gentlemen of the diplomatic corps were already standing below, waiting for Countess Wildenau to assign them their seats in the two landaus. But the lady was still leaning against the pillar which supported one end of the box. Pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, she vainly strove to control her tears. Her heart throbbed violently, her breath was short and quick--she could not master her emotion.

The prince stood before her, pale and silent, his eyes, too, were reddened by weeping.

"Try to calm yourself!" he said firmly. "The ladies are still in their box, the duchess seems to expect you to go to her. A woman of the world, like yourself, should not give way so."

"Give way, do you call it?" repeated Madeleine, who did not see that Prince Emil, too, was moved. "We shall never understand each other."

At this moment the ladies left their box and crossed the intervening space. They were the last persons in the theatre. The duchess, without a word, threw her arms around Countess von Wildenau's neck. Her ladies-in-waiting, too, approached with tearful eyes, and when the duchess at last released her friend from her embrace, the baroness whispered: "Forgive me, I have wronged you as well as many others--even yesterday, forgive me." The same entreaty was expressed in Her Excellency's glance and clasp of the hand as she said: "Whoever sees this must repent every unloving word ever uttered; we will never forget that we have witnessed it together."

"I thank you, but I should have borne you no ill will, even had I known what you have now voluntarily confessed to me!" replied the countess, kissing the ladies with dry, burning lips.

"Shall we go?" asked the duchess. "We shall be locked in."

"I will come directly--I beg you--will your Highness kindly go first? I should like to rest a moment!" stammered the countess in great confusion.

"You are terribly unstrung--that is natural--so are we all. I will wait for you below and take you in my carriage, if you wish. We can weep our fill together."

"Your Highness is--very kind," replied the countess, scarcely knowing what she answered.

When the party had gone down stairs, she passionately seized Prince Emil's arm: "For Heaven's sake, help me to escape going with them. I will not, _cannot_ leave. I beseech you by all that is sacred, let me stay here."

"So it is settled! The result is what I feared," said the prince with a heavy sigh. "I can only beg you for your own sake to consider the ladies. You have invited them to dine day after to-morrow--"

"I know it--apologize for me--say whatever you please--you will know--you can manage it--if you have ever loved me--help me! Drive with the ladies--entertain them, that they may not miss me!"

"And the magnificent ovation which the gentlemen have arranged at your home?"

"What do I care for it?"

"A fairy temple awaits you at the Palace Wildenau, and you will stay here? What a pity to lose the beautiful flowers, which must now wither in vain."

"I cannot help it. For Heaven's sake, act quickly--some one is coming!" She was trembling in every limb with fear--but it was no member of the party sent to summon her. A short man with clear cut features stood beside her, shrewd loyal eyes met her glance. "I saw that you were still here, Countess, can I serve you in any way?"

"Thank Heaven, it is Ludwig Gross!" cried the excited woman joyously, taking his arm. "Can you get me to your father's house without being seen?"

"Certainly, I can guide you across the stage, if you wish!"

"Quick, then! Farewell, Prince--be generous and forgive me!"

She vanished.

The prince was too thoroughly a man of the world to betray his feelings even for an instant. The short distance down the staircase afforded him ample time to decide upon his course. The misfortune had happened, and could no longer be averted--but it concerned himself alone. Her name and position must be guarded.

"Have you come without the countess?" called the duchess.

"I must apologize for her, Your Highness. The performance has so completely unstrung her nerves that she is unable to travel to-day. I have just placed her in her landlord's charge promising not only to make her apologies to the ladies, but also endeavor to supply her place."

"Oh, poor Countess Wildenau!" said the duchess, kindly. "Shall we not go to her assistance?"

"Permit me to remind your Highness that we have not a moment to lose, if we wish to catch the train!"

"Is it possible! Then we must hurry."

"Yes--and I think rest will be best for the countess at present," answered Prince Emil, helping the ladies into the carriage.

"Well, we shall see her at dinner on Tuesday? She will be able to travel to-morrow?"

"Oh, I hope so."

"But, Prince Emil! What will become of our flowers?" asked the gentlemen.

"Oh, they will keep until to-morrow!"

"I suppose she has no suspicion?"

"Of course not, and it is far better, for had she been aware of it, no doubt she would have gone to-day, in spite of her illness, and made herself worse."

The gentlemen assented. "Still it's a pity about the flowers. If they will only keep fresh!"

"She will let many a blossom wither, which may well be mourned!" thought the prince bitterly.

"Will you drive with us, Prince?" asked the duchess.

"If Your Highness will permit! Will you go to the Casino to-night, as we agreed, gentlemen?" he called as he entered the vehicle.

"Not I," replied Prince Hohenheim. "I honestly confess that I am not in the mood."

"Nor I," said St. Genois. "This has moved me to that--the finest circus in the world might be here and I would not enter! The burgomaster of Ammergau was right in permitting nothing of the kind."

"Yes, I will take back everything I said yesterday; I went to laugh and wept," remarked Wengenrode.

"It has robbed me of all desire for amusement," Cossigny added. "I care for nothing more to-day."

They bowed to the ladies and the prince, and silently entered their carriages. Prince Emil ordered the countess' coachman to drive back with the maid, who sat hidden in one corner, and joined the duchess and her companions.

The equipages rolled away in different directions--one back to the Gross house, the other to Munich, where the florists were toiling busily to adorn the Wildenau Palace for the reception of its fortunate owner, who was not coming.

Ludwig Gross led the countess across the now empty stage. It thrilled her with a strange emotion to thread its floor, and in her reverent awe, she scarcely ventured to glance around her at the vast, dusky space. Suddenly she recoiled from an unexpected horror--the cross lay before her. Her agitation did not escape the keen perception of Ludwig Gross, and he doubtless understood it; such things are not new to the people of Ammergau. "I will see whether the house of Pilate is still open, perhaps you may like to step out on the balcony!" he said, and moved away to leave her alone.

The countess understood the consideration displayed by the sympathizing man. Kneeling in the dark wings, she threw herself face downward on the cross, pressed her burning lips on the hard wood which had supported the noble body, on the marks left here also by the nails which had apparently pierced the hands of the crucified one, the red stains made by his painted wounds. Aye, it had become true, the miracle had happened. _The artificial blood also possessed redeeming power_.

Rarely did any pilgrim to the Holy Land ever press a more fervent kiss upon the wood of the true cross, than was now bestowed on the false one.

So, in the days of yore, Helen, the beautiful, haughty mother of the Emperor Constantine, may have flung herself down, after her long sea voyage, when she at last found the long sought cross to press it to her bosom in the unutterable joy of realization.

Ludwig's steps approached, and the countess roused herself from her rapture.

"Unfortunately the house is closed," said Ludwig, who had probably been perfectly aware of it. They went on to the dressing-rooms. "I'll see if Freyer is still here!" and the drawing-master knocked at the first door. The countess was so much startled that she was forced to lean against the wall to save herself from falling. Was it to come now--the fateful moment! Her knees threatened to give way, her heart throbbed almost to bursting--but there was no answer to the knock, thrice repeated. He was no longer there. Ludwig Gross opened the door, the room was empty. "Will you come in?" he asked. "Would it interest you to see the dressing-room?"

She entered. There hang his garments, still damp with perspiration from the severe toil.

Madeleine von Wildenau stooped with clasped hands in the bare little chamber. Something white and glimmering rustled and floated beside her--it was the transfiguration robe. She touched it lightly with her hand in passing, and a thrill of bliss ran through every nerve.

Ah, and there was the crown of thorns.

She took it in her hand and tears streamed down upon it, as though it were some sacred relic. Again the dream-like vision stood before her as she had seen it for the first time on the mountain top with the thorny branches swaying around the brow like an omen. "No, my hands shall defend thee that no thorn shall henceforth tear thee, beloved brow!" she thought, while a strange smile irradiated her face. Then looking up, she met the eyes of Ludwig, fixed upon her with deep emotion as she gazed down at the crown of thorns.

She replaced it and followed him to the door of the next room. Caiaphas! An almost childlike dread and timidity assailed her--the sort of feeling she had had when a young girl at the time of her first presentation at court--she was well-nigh glad that he was no longer there and she had time to calm herself ere she confronted the mighty priest.

"It is too late, they have all gone!" said Ludwig, offering his companion his arm to lead her down the staircase.

Numerous groups of people were standing in front of the theatre and in the street leading to the village.

"What are they doing here?" asked the lady.

"Oh, they are waiting for Freyer! It is always so. He has slipped around again by a side path to avoid seeing anyone, and the poor people must stand and wait in vain. I have often told him that he ought not to be so austere! It would please them so much if he would but give them one friendly word--but he cannot conquer this shyness. He cannot suffer himself to be revered as the Christ, after the Play is over. He ought not to permit the feeling which the people have for the Christ to be transferred to his person--that is his view of the matter."

"It is a lofty and noble thought, but hard for us poor mortals, who so eagerly cling to what is visible. It is impossible not to transfer the impression produced by the character to its representative, especially with a personality like Freyer's!"

Ludwig Gross nodded assent. "Yes, we have had this experience of old. Faith needs an earthly pledge, says our great poet, and Freyer's personation is such a pledge, a guarantee of whose blessed power everyone feels sure."

The countess eagerly pressed Ludwig's hands.

"I have seen people," Ludwig added, "who were happy, if they were only permitted to touch Freyer's garment, as though it could bring them healing like the actual robe of Christ! Would not Christ, also, if He beheld this pious delusion, exclaim: 'Woman, thy faith hath saved thee!'"

A deep flush crimsoned the countess' face, and the tears which she had so long struggled to repress flowed in streams. She leaned heavily on Ludwig's arm, and he felt the violent throbbing of her heart. It touched him and awakened his compassion. He perceived that hers, too, was a suffering soul seeking salvation here, and if she did not find it, would perish. "It shall be yours, poor woman; for rich as you may be, you are still poor--and we will give you what we can!" he thought.

The two companions pursued their way, without exchanging another word. The countess now greeted the old house like a lost home which she had once more regained.

Andreas Gross met her at the door, took off her shawl, and carried it into the room for her.

Josepha had already returned and said that the countess was ill.

"I hope it is nothing serious?" he asked anxiously.

"No, Herr Gross, I am well--but I cannot go; I must make the acquaintance of these people--I cannot tear myself away from this impression!"

She sank into a chair, laid her head on the table and sobbed like a child. "Forgive me, Herr Gross, I cannot help it!" she said with difficulty, amid her tears.

The old man laid his hand upon her shoulder with a gesture of paternal kindness. "Weep your fill, we are accustomed to it, do not heed us!" He drew her gently into the sitting-room.

Ludwig had vanished.

Josepha entered to ask whether she should unpack the luggage which was up in her room.

"Yes," replied the countess, "and let the carriages return to Munich, until I need them again."

"His Highness the Prince has left his valet here for your service," Josepha reported.

"What can he do? Let him go home, too! Let them all go--I want no one except you!" said the countess sternly, hiding her face again in her handkerchief. Josepha went out to give the order. Where could Ludwig Gross be?--He had become a necessity to her now, thus left alone with her overflowing heart! He had been right in everything.--He had told her that she would learn to weep here, he had first made her understand the spirit of Ammergau. Honor and gratitude were his due, he had promised nothing that had not been fulfilled. He was thoroughly genuine and reliable! But where had he gone, did not this man, usually so sympathetic, know that just now he might be of great help to her? Or did he look deeper _still_, and know that he was but a substitute for another, for whom her whole soul yearned? It was so lonely. A death-like stillness reigned in the house and in the street. All were resting after the heavy toil of the day.

Something outside darkened the window. Ludwig Gross was passing on his way toward the door, bringing with him a tan, dark figure, towering far above the low window, a figure that moved shyly, swiftly along, followed by a throng of people, at a respectful distance. The countess felt paralyzed. Was _he_ coming? Was he coming in.

She could not rise and look--she sat with clasped hands, trembling in humble expectation, as Danae waited the moment when the shower of gold should fall. Then--steps echoed in the workshop--the footsteps of two--! They were an eternity in passing down its length--but they were really approaching her room--they came nearer--some one knocked! She scarcely had breath to call "come in." She would not believe it--from the fear of disappointment. She still sat motionless at the table--Ludwig Gross opened the door to allow the other to precede him--and _Freyer_ entered. He stooped slightly, that he might not strike his head, but that was needless, for--what miracle was this? The door expanded before the countess' eyes, the ceiling rose higher and higher above him. A wide lofty space filled with dazzling light surrounded him. Colors glittered before her vision, figures floated to and fro; were they shadows or angels? She knew not, a mist veiled her eyes--for a moment she ceased to think. Then she felt as if she had awaked from a deep slumber, during which she had been walking in her sleep--for she suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer, he was holding her hands in his, while his eyes rested on hers--in speechless silence.

[Illustration: _She suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer_. Page 102.]

Then she regained her self-control and the first words she uttered were addressed to Ludwig: "You have brought _him_--!" she said, releasing Freyer's hands to thank the man who had so wonderfully guessed her yearning.

Gift and gratitude were equal--and here both were measureless! She scarcely knew at this moment which she valued more, the man who brought this donation or the gift itself. But from this hour Ludwig Gross was her benefactor.

"You have brought _him_"--she repeated, for she knew not what more to say--that one word contained _all_! Had she possessed the eloquence of the universe, it would not have been so much to Ludwig as that _one_ word and the look which accompanied it. Then, like a child at Christmas, which, after having expressed its thanks, goes back happily to its presents, she turned again to Freyer.

Yet, as the child stands timidly before the abundance of its gifts, and, in the first moments of surprise, does not venture to touch them, she now stood, shy and silent before him, her only language her eyes and the tears which streamed down her cheeks.

Freyer saw her deep emotion and, bending kindly toward her, again took her hands in his. Every nerve was still quivering--she could feel it--from the terrible exertion he had undergone--and as the moisture drips from the trees after the rain, his eyes still swam in tears, and his face was damp with perspiration.

"How shall I thank you for coming to me after this day of toil?" she began in a low tone.

[Illustration: _She suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer_.]

"Oh, Countess," he answered with untroubled truthfulness, "I did it for the sake of my friend Ludwig--he insisted upon it."

"So it was only on his friend's account," thought the countess, standing with bowed head before him.

He was now the king--and she, the queen of her brilliant sphere, was nothing save a poor, hoping, fearing woman!

At this moment all the vanity of her worldly splendor fell from her--for the first time in her life she stood in the presence of a man where _she_ was the supplicant, he the benefactor. What a feeling! At once humiliating and blissful, confusing and enthralling! She had recognized by that one sentence the real state of the case--what to this man was the halo surrounding the Reichscountess von Wildenau with her coronet and her millions? Joseph Freyer knew but one aristocracy--that of the saints in whose sphere he was accustomed to move--and if he left it for the sake of an earthly woman, he would stoop to her, no matter how far, according to worldly ideals, she might stand above him!

Yet poor and insignificant as she felt in his presence--while the lustre of her coronet and the glitter of her gold paled and vanished in the misty distance--_one_ thing remained on which she could rely, her womanly charm, and this must wield its influence were she a queen or the child of a wood-cutter! "Then, for the earthly crown you have torn from my head, proud man, you shall give me your crown of thorns, and I will _still_ be queen!" she thought, as the spirit of Mother Eve stirred within her and an intoxicating breeze blew from the Garden of Paradise. Not for the sake of a base emotion of vanity and covetousness, nay, she wished to be loved, in order to _bless_. It is the nature of a noble woman to seek to use her power not to receive, but to give, to give without stint or measure. The brain thinks quickly--but the heart is swifter still! Ere the mind has time to grasp the thought, the heart has seized it. The countess had experienced all this in the brief space during which Freyer's eyes rested on her. Suddenly he lowered his lashes and said in a whisper: "I think we have met before, countess."

"On my arrival Friday evening. You were standing on the top of the mountain while I was driving at the foot. Was it not so?"

"Yes," he murmured almost inaudibly, and there was something like an understanding, a sweet familiarity in the soft assent. She felt it, and her hand clasped his more firmly with a gentle pressure.

He again raised his lashes, gazing at her with an earnest, questioning glance, and it seemed as if she felt a pulse throbbing in the part of the hand which bore the mark of the wound--the warning did not fail to produce its effect.

"Christus, my Christus!" she whispered repentantly. It seemed as if she had committed a sin in suffering an earthly wish to touch the envoy of God. He was crucified, dead, and buried. He only walked on earth like a spirit permitted to return from time to time and dwell for a brief space among the living. Who could claim a spirit, clasp a shadow to the heart? Grief oppressed her, melancholy, akin to the grief we feel when we dream of the return of some beloved one who is dead, and throw ourselves sobbing on his breast, while we are aware that it is only a dream! But even if but a dream, should she not dream it with her whole soul? If she knew that he was given to her only a few moments, should she not crowd into them with all the sweeter, more sorrowful strength, the love of a whole life?

After us the deluge, says love to the moment--and that which does not say it is not love.

But in this _moment_, the countess felt, lay the germ of something imperishable, and when it was past there would begin for her--not annihilation, but _eternity_. To it she must answer for what she did with the moment!

Ludwig Gross was standing by the window, he did not wish to listen what was communicated by the mute language of those eyes. He had perceived, with subtle instinct, the existence of some mysterious connection, in which no third person had any part. They were alone--virtually alone, yet neither spoke, only their tearful eyes expressed the suffering which he endured and _she_ shared in beholding.

"Come, poor martyr!" cried her heart, and she released one of his hands to clasp the other more closely with both her own. She noticed a slight quiver. "Does your hand still ache--from the terrible nail which seemed to be driven into your flesh?"

"Oh, no, that would cause no pain; the nail passes between the fingers and the large head extends toward the center of the palm. But to-day, by accident, Joseph of Arimathea in drawing out the nail took a piece of the flesh with it, so that I clenched my teeth with the pain!" he said, smiling, and showing her the wound. "Do you see? Now I am really stigmatized!"

"Good Heavens, there is a large piece of the flesh torn out, and you bore it without wincing?"

"Why, of course!" he said, simply.

Ludwig gazed fixedly out of the window. The countess had gently drawn the wounded hand nearer and nearer; suddenly forgetting everything in an unutterable feeling, she stooped and ere Freyer could prevent it pressed a kiss upon the bloody stigma.

Joseph Freyer shrank as though struck by a thunderbolt, drawing back his hand and closing it as if against some costly gift which he dared not accept. A deep flush crimsoned his brow, his broad chest heaved passionately and he was obliged to cling to a chair, to save himself from falling. Yet unconsciously his eyes flashed with a fire at once consuming and life-bestowing--a Prometheus spark!

"You are weary, pardon me for not having asked you to sit down long ago!" said the countess, making an effort to calm herself, and motioning to Ludwig Gross, in order not to leave him standing alone.

"Only a moment"--whispered Freyer, also struggling to maintain his composure, as he sank into a chair. Madeleine von Wildenau turned away, to give him time to regain his self-command. She saw his intense emotion, and might perhaps have been ashamed of her hasty act had she not known its meaning--for her feeling at that moment was too sacred for him to have misunderstood it. Nor had he failed to comprehend, but it had overpowered him.

Ludwig, who dearly perceived the situation, interposed with his usual tact to relieve their embarrassment: "Freyer is particularly exhausted to-day; he told me, on our way here, that he had again been taken from the cross senseless."

"Good Heavens, does that happen often?" asked the countess.

"Unfortunately, yes," said Ludwig in a troubled tone.

"It is terrible--your father told me that the long suspension on the cross was dangerous. Can nothing be done to relieve it?"

"Something might be accomplished," replied Ludwig, "by substituting a flat cross for the rounded one. Formerly, when we had a smooth, angular one, it did not tax his strength so much! But some authority in archaeology told us that the crosses of those days were made of semi-circular logs, and this curve, over which the back is now strained, stretches the limbs too much."

"I should think so!" cried the countess in horror. "Why do you use such an instrument of torture?"

"He himself insists upon it, for the sake of historical accuracy."

"But suppose you should not recover, from one of these fainting fits?" asked the lady, reproachfully.

Then Freyer, conquering his agitation, raised his head. "What more beautiful fate could be mine, Countess, than to die on the cross, like my redeemer? It is all that I desire."

"All?" she repeated, and a keen emotion of jealousy assailed her, jealousy of the cross, to which he would fain devote his life! She met his dark eyes with a look, a sweet, yearning--fatal look--a poisoned arrow whose effect she well knew. She grudged him to the cross, the dead, wooden instrument of martyrdom, which did not feel, did not love, did not long for him as she did! And the true Christ? Ah, He was too noble to demand such a sacrifice--besides. He would receive too souls for one, for surely, in His image, she loved _Him_. He had sent her the hand marked with blood stains to show her the path to Him--He could not desire to withdraw it, ere the road was traversed.

"You are a martyr in the true sense of the word," she said. Her eyes seemed to ask whether the shaft had struck. But Freyer had lowered his lids and sat gazing at the floor.

"Oh, Countess," he said evasively, "to have one's limbs wrenched for half an hour does not make a martyr. That suffering brings honor and the consciousness of serving others. Many, like my friend Ludwig, and other natives of Ammergau, offer to our cause secret sacrifices of happiness which no audience beholds and applauds, and which win no renown save in their own eyes and God's. _They_ are martyrs, Countess!--I am merely a vain, spoiled, sinful man, who has enough to do to keep himself from being dazzled by the applause of the world and to become worthy of his task."

"To _become_!" the countess repeated. "I think whoever speaks in that way, _is_ worthy already."

Freyer raised his eyes with a look which seemed to Madeleine von Wildenau to lift her into a higher realm. "Who would venture to say that he was worthy of _this_ task? It requires a saint. All I can hope for is that God will use the imperfect tool to work His miracles, and that He will accept my _will_ for the deed,--otherwise I should be forced to give up the part _this very day_."

The countess was deeply moved.

"Oh, Freyer, wonderful, divinely gifted nature! To us you are the Redeemer, and yet you are so severe to yourself."

"Do not talk so, Countess! I must not listen! I will not add to all my sins that of robbing my Master, in His garb, of what belongs to _Him_ alone. You cannot suspect how it troubles me when people show me this reverence; I always long to cry out, 'Do not confound me with Him--I am nothing more than the wood--or the marble from which an image of the Christ is carved, and withal _bad_ wood, marble which is not free from stains.' And when they will not believe it, and continue to transfer to me the love which they ought to have for Christ--I feel that I am robbing my Master, and no one knows how I suffer." He started up. "That is why I mingle so little with others--and if I ever break this rule I repent it, for my peace of mind is destroyed."

He took his hat. His whole nature seemed changed--this was the chaste severity with which he had driven the money changers from the temple, and Madeleine turned pale--chilled to the inmost heart by his inflexible bearing.

"Are you going?" she murmured in a trembling voice.

"It is time," he answered, gently, but with an unapproachable dignity which made the words with which she would fain have entreated him to stay longer, die upon her lips.

"Your Highness win leave to morrow?"

"The countess intends to remain some time," said Ludwig, pressing his friend's arm lightly, as a warning not to wound her feeling.

"Ah," replied Freyer, thoughtfully, "then perhaps we shall meet again."

"I have not yet answered what you have said to-day; will you permit me to do so to-morrow?" asked the countess, gently; an expression of quiet suffering hovered around her lips.

"To-morrow I play the Christ again, Countess--but doubtless some opportunity will be found within the next few days."

"As you please--farewell!"

Freyer bowed respectfully, but as distantly as if he did not think it possible that the lady would offer him her hand. Ludwig, on the contrary, as if to make amends for his friend's omission, frankly extended his. She clasped it, saying in a low, hurried tone: "Stay!"

"I will merely go with Freyer to the door, and then return, if you will allow me."

"Yes," she said, dismissing Freyer with a haughty wave of the hand. Then, throwing herself into the chair by the table, she burst into bitter weeping. She had always been surrounded by men who sued for her favor as though it were a royal gift. And here--here she was disdained, and by whom? A man of the people--a plebeian! No, a keen pang pierced her heart as she tried to give him that name. If _he_ was a plebeian, so, too, was Christ. Christ, too, sprang from the people--the ideal of the human race was born in a _manger_! She could summon to confront Him only _one_ kind of pride, that of the _woman_, not of the high-born lady. Alas--she had not even _this_. How often she had flung her heart away without love. For the mess of pottage of gratified vanity or an interesting situation, as the prince had said yesterday, she had bartered the birthright of the holiest feeling. Of what did she dare to be proud? That, for the first time in her life, she really loved? Was she to avenge herself by arrogance upon the man who had awakened this divine emotion because he did not share it? No, that would be petty and ungrateful. Yet what could she do? He was so far above her in his unassuming simplicity, so utterly inviolable. She was captured by his nobility, her weapons were powerless against him. As she gazed around her for some support by which she might lift herself above him, every prop of her former artificial life snapped in her grasp before the grand, colossal verity of this apparition. She could do nothing save love and suffer, and accept whatever fate he bestowed.

Some one knocked at the door; almost mechanically she gave the permission to enter.

Ludwig Gross came in noiselessly and approached her. Without a word she held out her hand, as a patient extends it to the physician. He stood by her side and his eyes rested on the weeping woman with the sympathy and understanding born of experience in suffering. But his presence was infinitely soothing. This man would allow nothing to harm her! So far as his power extended, she was safe.

She looked at him as if beseeching help--and he understood her.

"Freyer was unusually excited to-day," he said, "I do not know what was passing in his mind. I never saw him in such a mood before! When we entered the garden, he embraced me as if something extraordinary had happened, and then rushed off as though the ground was burning under his feet--of course in the direction opposite to his home, for the whole street was full of people waiting to see him."

The countess held her breath to listen.

"Was he in this mood when you called for him?" she asked.

"No, he was as usual, calm and weary."

"What changed him so suddenly?"

"I believe, Countess, that you have made an impression upon him which he desires to understand. You have thrown him out of the regular routine, and he no longer comprehends his own feelings."

"But I--I said so little--I don't understand," cried the countess, blushing.

"The important point does not always depend on what is said, but on what is _not_ said, Countess. To deep souls what is unuttered is often more significant than words."

Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes and silently clasped Ludwig's hand.

"Do you think that he--" she did not finish the sentence, Ludwig spared her.

"From my knowledge of Freyer--either he will _never_ return, or--he will come _to-morrow_."

CHAPTER IX.

SIGNS AND WONDERS.

The great number of strangers who were unable to get tickets the day before had rendered a second performance necessary. The countess did not attend it. To her the play had been no spectacle, but an experience--a repetition would have degraded it to a mere drama. She had spent the day in retirement, like a prisoner, that she might not fall into the hands of any acquaintances. Now the distant rumble of carriages announced the close of the performance. It was a delightful autumn evening. The Gross family came to the window on their return home, and wondered to find the countess still in her room. The sounds of stifled sobs echoed from the work room. The other lodgers in the house had come back from the theatre and, like every one, were paying their tribute of tears. An American had gone to-day for the second time. He sat weeping on the bench near the stove, and said that it had been even more touching than yesterday. Andreas Gross assented: "Yes, Joseph Freyer never played as he did to-day."

The countess, sitting in her room, heard the words and was strangely moved. Why had he never played as he did _to-day_?

Some one tapped gently on the door.

A burning blush suffused the countess' face--had _he_--? He might have passed through the garden from the other side to avoid the spectators. "Come in!" she called.

It was Josepha with a telegram in her hand. The messenger was waiting for an answer.

The countess opened it and read the contents. It was from the prince. "Please inform me whether I shall countermand the dinner."

"Very well. I will send the reply."

Josepha withdrew.

"If Ludwig were only here!" thought the countess. "He must be waiting to bring Freyer, as he did yesterday."

The rapid pulsing of her heart almost stifled her. One quarter of an hour passed after another. At last Ludwig came--but alone.

The countess was sitting at the open window and Ludwig paused beside it.

"Well, how was the play to-day?"

"Magnificent," he replied. "I never saw Freyer so superb. He was perfect, fairly superhuman! It is a pity that you were not there."

"Did he inquire for me?"

"Yes. I explained to him that you did not wish to see it a second time--and for what reason. He nodded and said: 'I am glad the lady feels so.'"

"Then--we understand each other!" The countess drew a long breath. "Did you ask him to come here with you?"

"No. I thought I ought not to do that--he must come now of his own free will, or you would be placed in a false position."

"You are right--I thank you!" said the countess, turning pale and biting her lips. "Do you think that--he will come?"

"Unfortunately, no--he went directly home."

"Will you do me a favor?"

"Certainly, Countess."

"Despatch a telegram for me. I have arranged to give a dinner party at home and should like to send a message that I am coming."

"You will not remain here longer?"

"No!" she said in a tone sharp and cutting as a knife which is thrust into one's own heart. "Come in, please."

Ludwig obeyed the command and she wrote with the bearing of a queen signing a death-warrant:

"Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim, Munich.

"Will come at five to-morrow. Dinner can be given.

"Madeleine."

"Here, if you will be so kind," she said, handing the sheet to Ludwig.

The latter gazed earnestly at her, as though he wanted to say: "If only you don't repent it." But he asked the question in the modest wording: "Shall I send it _at once_?"

"Yes, if you please!" she answered, and her whole manner expressed a coldness which startled Ludwig.

"Can genuine warmth of heart freeze so quickly?" he asked himself. Madeleine von Wildenau felt the mute reproach and disappointment in Ludwig's manner. She felt, too, that he was right, and called him back as he reached the door. "Give it to me," she said, taking the telegram, "I will consider the matter." Then meeting the eyes of the noble man, which now brightened again for her sake, she added earnestly, holding out her hand, "You understand me better than I do myself."

"I thank you for those words--they make me very proud, Countess!" said Ludwig with a radiant glance, placing the telegram on the table. "I will go now that I may not disturb you while you are considering what course to pursue."

He left the room. Twilight was gathering. The countess sat by the table holding the telegram clenched in her little hand.

"The people of Ammergau unconsciously exercise a moral constraint which is irresistible. There is a power of truth in them which prevents even self-deception in their presence!" she murmured half defiantly, half admiringly. What was to be done now? To remain longer here and countermand the dinner meant a positive breach with society. But who was there _here_ to thank her for such a sacrifice? Who cared for the Countess Wildenau? She was one of the thousands who came and went, taking with them a lofty memory, without leaving any remembrance in the mind of any one. Why should she hold them accountable if she gave to this impression a significance which was neither intended nor suspected. We must not force upon men sacrifices which they do not desire!

She rested her arm on the table and sat irresolute. Now--now in this mood, to return to the prosaic, superficial round, after imagining yesterday that she stood face to face with deity? _Could_ she do it? Was not the mute reproach in Ludwig's glance true? She thoughtfully rested her beautiful face on her hand.

She had not noticed a knock at the door, a carriage was driving by whose rattle drowned every sound. For the same reason the person outside, supposing that he had not heard the "come in!" softy opened the door. At the noise the countess raised her head--Freyer stood before her.

"You have come, you _did_ come!" she exclaimed, starting up and seizing his hand that the sweet, blissful dream might not vanish once more.

"Excuse me if I disturb you," he said in a low, timid tone. "I--I should not have come--but I could not bear to stay at home, I was so excited to-day. When evening came, some impulse drove me here--I was--I had--"

"You had a desire to talk to some one who could understand you, and this urged you to me, did it not?"

"Yes, Countess! But I should not have ventured to come in, had not--"

"Well?"

"Ludwig met me and said that you were going away--"

"Ah--and did you regret it?"

"I wished at least to bid you farewell and thank you for all your kindness to my unhappy cousin Josepha!" he said evasively. "I neglected to do so yesterday, I was so embarrassed."

"You are not sincere with me, Herr Freyer!" said the countess, motioning to him to sit down. "This expression of thanks does not come from your heart, for you do not care what I do for Josepha. That is merely the pretext for coming to me--because you do not wish to confess what really brought you. Am I not right?"

"Countess!" said Freyer, completely disconcerted, as he tried to rise.

She gently laid her hand on his, detaining him. "Stay! Your standard is so rigid in everything--what is your view of truth?"

Freyer fixed his eyes on the floor.

"Is it _true_, when you say that you came to thank me for Josepha? Were you not drawn hither by the feeling that, of all the thousands of souls who pass you in the course of the summer, perhaps there is not one who could understand you and your task as I do?"

Freyer clasped his hands on his knees and silently bent his head.

"Perhaps you have not thought of me as I have thought of you, all day long, since our eyes met on the mountain, as though some higher power had pointed us out to each other."

Freyer remained silent, but as the full cup overflows at the slightest movement, tears again gushed from his eyes.

"Why did you look at me so from head to foot, pouring forth in that gaze your whole soul with a world of grief and joy, as a blossoming tree showers its flowers on the passer-by? Surely not on account of a woman's face, though it may be passably fair, but because you felt that I perceived the Christ in you and that it was _He_ for whom I came. Your glance meant to tell me: 'It is I whom you are seeking!' and I believe you. And when at last the promise was fulfilled and the long sought redeemer stood before me, was it by chance that his prophetic eye discovered me among the thousands of faces when he said: 'But in many hearts day will soon dawn!' Did you not seek me, as we look for a stranger to whom we must fulfill a promise given on the journey?"

Freyer now raised his dark eyes and fixed them full upon her, but made no reply.

"And is it true that you came yesterday, only because Ludwig wished it, you who, spite of all entreaties, have kept ladies who had the world at their feet waiting on your stairs for hours? Did you not come because you suspected that I might be the woman with whom, since that meeting, you had had some incomprehensible spiritual bond?"

Freyer covered his eyes with his hand, as if he was afraid more might be read in them.

"Be truthful, Herr Freyer, it is unworthy of you and of me to play a conventional farce. I am compelled to act so many in my life that I would fain for once be frank, as mortal to mortal! Tell me simply, have I judged correctly--yes or no?"

"Yes!" whispered Freyer, without looking up.

She gently drew his hand down. "And to-day--to-day--did you come merely out of gratitude for your cousin?" she questioned with the archness of her increasing certainty of happiness.

He caught the little hand with which she had clasped his, and raised it ardently to his lips; then, as if startled that he had allowed himself to be carried so far, he flung back his raven locks as if they had deluded his senses, and pushed his chair farther away in order not to be again led into temptation. She did not interfere--she knew that he was in her power--struggle as he might, the dart was fixed. Yet the obstacles she had to conquer were great and powerful. Coquetry would be futile, only the moral force of a _genuine_ feeling could cope with them, and of this she was conscious, with a happiness never felt before. Again she searched her own heart, and her rapid glance wandered from the thorn-scarred brow of the wonderful figure before her, to pierce the depths of her own soul. Her love for him was genuine, she was not toying with his heart; she wished, like Mary Magdalene, to sanctify herself in his love. But she was the Magdalene in the _first_ stage. Had Christ been a _man_, and attainable like _this_ man, what transformations the Penitent's heart must have undergone, ere its fires wrought true purification.

"Herr Freyer," the countess began in a low, eager tone, "you said yesterday that it troubled you when people showed you idolatrous reverence and you felt that you thereby robbed your Master. Can we give aught to any earthly being without giving it to _God_?"

Freyer listened intently.

"Is there any soul which does not belong to God, did not emanate from _Him_, is not a part of _His_ power? And does not that which flows from one part to another stream back in a perpetual circle to the _Creator_? We can _take_ nothing which does not come from God, _give_ nothing which does not return to Him. Do you know the principle of the preservation of power?"

"No," said Freyer, confused by his ignorance of something he was asked.

"Well, it can be explained in a very few words. Science has proved that nothing in the universe can be lost, that even a force which is apparently uselessly squandered is merely transformed into another. Thus in God nothing can be lost, even though it has no direct relation to Him--for he is the _spiritual_ universe. True, _every_ feeling does not produce a work of God, any more than every effort of nature brings forth some positive result. But as in the latter case the force expended is not lost, because it produces other, though secondary results, so in _God_ no sentiment of love and enthusiasm is lost, even though it may relate to Him only in a secondary degree."

"Very true."

"Then if that _is_ so,--how can any one rob this God, who surrounds us like the universe, from which we come, into which we pass again, and in which our forces are constantly transformed in a perpetual round of change."

Freyer rested his head on his hand, absorbed in thought.

"And if a feeling is so deeply rooted in religion, so directly associated with God as that which men offer to you. His representative, why should you have these scruples?"

"I have never heard any one talk in this way! Pardon my faint-heartedness, and ignorance--I am a poor, simple-hearted man--you will be indulgent, will you not?"

"Freyer!" cried the countess, deeply moved, and spite of the distance to which he had pushed his chair, held out her hand.

"You see, I had no opportunity to attend a higher school, I was so poor. I lost my parents when a lad of twelve and received only the most necessary instruction. All my knowledge I obtained afterwards by reading, and it is of course defective and insufficient. On our mountains, beside our rushing streams, among the hazel bushes whose nuts were often my only food, I grew up, watching the horses sent to pasture with their colts. Up by St. Gregory's chapel, where the Leine falls over the cliffs, I left the animals grazing in the wide meadows, flung myself down in a field of gentian and, lying on my back, gazed upward into the blue sky and thought it must surely open, the transparent atmosphere _must_ at last be pierced--as the bird imagines, when it dashes its head against a pane of glass--so I learned to think of God! And when my brain and heart grew giddy, as if I were destined for something better, when a longing overwhelmed me which my simple meditations could not quell, I caught one of my young horses by the mane, swung myself on its bare back, and swept over the broad plain, feeling myself a king."

He extended his arms, and now his face was suddenly transformed--laughing, bright, joyous as the Swedes imagine their Neck, the kind, friendly water sprite who still retains some of the mythical blood of the Northern god of Spring, Freyer's namesake. "Ah, Countess--that was poetry! Who could restore _those_ days; that childish ignorance, that happy hope, that freedom of innocence!"

Again, like the pictures in a kaleidoscope, his expression changed and a gloomy melancholy spread its veil over his brow. "Alas!--that is all over! My light-footed colts have become weary, clumsy animals, dragging loaded wains, and I--I drag no less wearily the burden of life."

"How can you speak so at the moment when, yourself a miracle, you are revealing to men the miracles of God? Is it not ungrateful!"

"Oh, no, Countess, I am grateful! But I do not so separate myself from my part that I could be happy while portraying the sufferings of my Redeemer! Do you imagine that I have merely learned the words by heart? With His form, I have also taken His cross upon me! Since that time all my youth has fled and a touch of pain pervades my whole life."

"Then you are His true follower--then you are doing what Simon of Cyrene did! And do _you_ believe that you ought not to accept even the smallest portion of the gratitude which men owe to the Crucified One? Must you share only His sufferings, not His joys, the joys bestowed by the love and faith of moved and converted souls? Surely if you are so narrow-minded, you understand neither yourself nor the love of God, Who has chosen and favored you from among millions to renew to the world the forgotten message of salvation."

"Oh God, oh God!--help me to keep my humility--this is too much."

Freyer started up and pressed his hand upon his brow as if to ward off an invisible crown which was descending upon it.

The countess also rose and approached him. "Freyer, the suffering you endure for Christ's sake, I share with you! It is the mystery in which our souls found each other. Pain is eternal, Freyer, and that to which it gives birth is imperishable! What do we feel when we stand before a painted or sculptured image of the Crucified One? Pity, the most agonizing pity! I have never been willing to believe it--but since yesterday I have known that it is a solace to the believing soul to bestow a tender embrace upon the lifeless image and to touch the artificial wounds with ardent lips. What must it be when that image loves, feels, and suffers! When it speaks to us in tones that thrill the inmost heart? When we see it quiver and bleed under the lashes of the executioner--when the sweat of agony trickles from the brow and _real_ tears flow from the eyes? I ask, _what_ must this be to us? Imagine yourself for once the person who _sees this_--and then judge whether it is not overpowering? If faith in the _stone_ Christ works miracles--why should not belief in the _living_ one do far more? The pious delusion is so much the greater, and _faith_ brings blessing."

She clasped her hands upon his breast

"Come, image of mercy, bend down to me. Let me clasp your beloved head and press upon your tortured brow the kiss of reconciliation for all penitent humanity!" Then, taking his face between her hands, she lightly pressed a fervent kiss upon the brow gently inclined toward her. "Now go and lament that you have robbed your Master of this kiss. He will ask, with a smile: 'Do you know for whom that kiss was meant--_thee_ or _me_?' And you will be spared an answer, for when you raise your eyes to Him, you will find it imprinted on _His_ brow."

She paused, overpowered by the sacredness of the moment. There are times when our own words influence us like some unknown force, because they express something which has been so deeply concealed in our hearts that we ourselves were ignorant of its existence. This was the case now with the countess. Freyer stood silently with clasped hands, as if in church.

It seemed as though some third person was addressing them--an invisible person whom they must hold their very breath to understand.

It had grown late. The waning moon floated high above the low window and brightened the little room with its cheering rays. The countess nodded. "It is fulfilled!" Then she laid her hands in Freyer's: "For the first time since my childhood I place my soul in the keeping of a human being! For the first time since my childhood, I strip off all the arrogance of reason, for a higher perception is hovering above me, drawing nearer and nearer with blissful certainty! Is it love, is it faith? Whichever it may be--God dwells in _both_. And--if philosophy says: 'I _think_, therefore I _am_,' I say: 'I _love_, therefore I _believe_!'"

She humbly bowed her head. "And therefore I beseech you. Bless me, you who are so divinely endowed, with the blessing which is shed upon and emanates from you!"

Freyer raised his eyes to Heaven as if to call down the benediction she implored, and there was such power in the fervid gaze that Madeleine von Wildenau experienced a thrill almost of fear, as if in the presence of some supernatural being. Then he made the sign of the cross over her: "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

A tremor of foreboding ran through her limbs as if the finger of God had marked her for some mysterious destination and, with this rune, she had been enrolled in the pallid host of those consecrated by sorrow as followers of the deity.

With sweet submission she clasped the hand which had just imprinted the mournful sign on brow and breast: "In the name of God, if only _you_ are near me!" Her head drooped on her bosom. Some one knocked at the door, the countess' brain reeled so much that she was forced to cling to Freyer for support.

Josepha timidly asked if she wanted a light.

"Light! Was it _dark_?"

"Very well," she answered absently.

Josepha brought the lamp and enquired when the countess desired to have supper? Freyer took his hat to go.

"I shall eat nothing more to-night!" said the countess in a curt, impatient tone, and Josepha timidly withdrew.

Madeleine von Wildenau covered her face with both hands like a person who had been roused from a beautiful dream to bare reality.

"Alas--that there must be other people in the world, besides ourselves!" She sighed heavily, as if to take breath after the terrible fall. Freyer, hat in hand, approached her, calm and self-controlled. Joseph Freyer, addressing Countess Wildenau, had no remembrance of what the penitent soul had just confided to the image of the Redeemer.

"Allow me to take my leave, your Highness," he said in a gentle, but distant tone.

The countess understood the delicate modesty of this conduct. "Did your blue gentians teach this tact? It would seem that lonely pastures, whispering hazel copses, and dashing mountain streams are better educators of the heart, for those who understand their mysterious language, than many of our schools."

Freyer was silent a moment, then with eyes bent on the floor, he said: "May I ask when your Highness intends to leave to-morrow?"

"_Must_ I go, Freyer?"

"Your Highness--"

"Here is a telegram which announces my arrival at home to-morrow. Tell me, Freyer, shall I send it?"

"How can _I_ decide--" stammered Freyer in confusion.

"I wish to know whether you--_you_, Freyer, would like to keep me here?"

"But Good Heavens, your Highness--is it seemly for me to express such a wish? Of course it will be a great pleasure to have you remain--but how could I seek to influence you in any way?"

"Mere phrases!" said the countess, disappointed and offended. "Then, if it is a matter of indifference to you whether I go or stay, I will send the telegram." She went to the table to add something.

Suddenly he stood close beside her, with a beseeching, tearful glance--and laid his hand upon the paper.

"No--do not send it."

"Not send it?" asked Madeleine in blissful expectation. "Not send it--then what am I to do?"

His lips moved several times, as if he could not utter the word--but at last it escaped from his closed heart, and with an indescribable smile he murmured: "Stay!"

Ah! A low cry of exultation escaped the countess, and the telegram lay torn upon the table. Then with a trembling hand she wrote the second, which she requested him to send at once. It contained only the words: "Am ill--cannot come!"

He was still standing at her side, and she gave it to him to read.

"Is it true?" he asked, after glancing at it, looking at her with timid, sportive reproach. "Are you ill?"

"Yes!" she said caressingly, laying her hand, as if she felt a pang, upon her heart. "I _am_!"

He clasped both in his own and asked softly in a tone which sent a thrill of happiness through every vein: "How shall we _cure_ this illness?"

She felt his warm breath on her waving hair--and dared not stir.

Then, with sudden resolution he shook off the thrall: "Good-night, Countess!"

The next moment he was hurrying past the window.

Ludwig, wondering at his Mend's hasty departure, entered.

"What has happened, Countess?"

"Signs and wonders have happened," she said, extending her arms as if transfigured.

CHAPTER X.

IN THE EARLY MORNING.

"Rise Mary! Night is darkening and the wintry storms are raging--but be comforted, in the early morning, in the Spring garden, you will see me again."

The countess woke from a short slumber as if some one had uttered the words aloud. She glanced around the dusky room, it was still early, scarcely a glimmer of light pierced through the chinks of the shutters. She tried to sleep again, but in vain. The words constantly rang in her ears: "In the early morning you will see me again." Now the chinks in the shutters grew brighter, and one golden arrow after another darted through. The countess threw aside the coverlet and started up. Why should she torment herself with trying to court sleep? Outside a dewy garden offered its temptations.

True, it was an autumn, not a spring garden. Yet for her it was Spring--it had dawned in her heart--the first springtime of her life.

Up and away! Should she wake Josepha, who slept above her? Nay, no sound, no word must disturb this sacred morning stillness.

She dressed and, half an hour later, glided lightly, unseen, into the garden.

The clock in the church steeple was striking six. A fresh autumn breeze swept like a band of jubilant sprites through the tops of the ancient trees, then rushing downward, tossed her silken hair as though it would fain bear away the filmy strands to some envious wood-nymph to weave nets from it for the poor mortals who might lose themselves in her domain.

On the ground at her feet, too, the grasses and shrubs swayed and rustled as if little gnomes were holding high revel there. A strange mood pervaded all nature.

Madeleine von Wildenau looked upward; there were huge cloud-shapes in the sky, but the sun was shining brightly in a broad expanse of blue. The bells were ringing for early mass. The countess clasped her hands. Everything was silent and lonely, no eye beheld, no ear heard her, save the golden orb above. The birds carolling their matin songs, the flowers whose cups were filled with morning dew, the buzzing, humming bees--all were celebrating the great matins of awakening nature--and she, whose heart was full of the morning dew of the first genuine feeling of her life, was she alone not to join in the chorus of gratitude of refreshed creation?

There is a language whose key we do not possess. It is the Sanscrit of Nature and of the human soul when it communes with the deity. The countess sank silently down on the dewy grass. She did not pray in set words--there was an interchange of thought, her heart spoke to God, and reason knew not what it confided to Him.

In the early morning in the spring garden "thou wilt see me again!" There again spoke the voice which had roused her so early! The countess raised her head--but still remained kneeling as if spell-bound. Before her stood the Promised One.

She could say nothing save the word uttered by Mary Magdalene: "Master!"

A loving soul can never be surprised by the object of its love because it expects him always and everywhere, yet it appears a miracle when its expectation becomes fulfilment.

"Have I interrupted your prater? I did not see you because you were kneeling"--he said, gently.

"You interrupt my prayer--you who first taught me to pray?" she asked, holding out her hand that he might help her rise. "Tell me, how did you come here?"

"I could not sleep--some yearning urged me to your presence--to your garden."

He gently raised her, while she gazed into his eyes as if enraptured. "Master!" she repeated. "Oh, my friend, I was like Mary Magdalene, my Lord had been taken away and I knew not where they had laid Him. Now I know. He was buried in my own heart and the world had rolled the stone before it, but yesterday--yesterday He rose and the stone was cast aside. So some impulse urged me into the garden early this morning to seek Him and lo--He stands before me as He promised."

"Do not speak so!--I am well aware that the words are not meant for me, but if you associate Christ so closely with my personality, I fear that you will confound Him with me, and that His image will be dimmed, if anything should ever shadow mine! I beseech you, Countess, by all that is sacred--learn to separate Him from me--or you have not grasped the true nature of Christ, and my work will be evil!" He stood before her with hand uplifted in prophecy, the outlines of his powerful form were sharply relieved against the dewy, shining morning air. Purity, chastity, the loftiest, most inspired earnestness were expressed in his whole bearing, all the dignity of the soul and of primeval, divinely created human nature.

Must not she have that feeling of adoration which always seizes upon us whenever, no matter where it may be, the deity is revealed in His creations? No, she did not understand what he meant, she only understood that there was something divine in him, and that the perception of this nearness to God filled her with a happiness never known before. Joseph Freyer was the guarantee of the existence of a God in whom she had lost faith--why should she imagine Him in any other form than the one which she had found Him again? "Thou shalt make thyself no graven image!" Must this Puritanically misunderstood literal statement destroy man's dearest possession, the _symbol of the reality_? Then the works of Raphael, Titian, and Rubens must be effaced, and the unions of miracles of faith, wrought in the souls of the human race by the representations of the divine nature.

"Oh blessed image-worship, now I understand your meaning!" she joyously exclaimed. "Whoever reviles you has never felt the ardent desire of the weak human heart, the captive of the senses, for contact with the unapproachable, the sight of the face of the ever concealed yet ever felt divinity. Here, here stands the most perfect image Heaven and earth ever created, and must I not kneel before it, clasp it with all the tendrils of my aspiring soul? No! No one ought, no one can prevent me."

Half defiantly, half imploringly, the words poured from her inmost soul like molten lava. "Let all misunderstand me--save _you_, Freyer! You, by whom God wrought the miracle, ought not to be narrow-minded! _You_ ought not to destroy it for me, you least of all!" Then she pleaded, appealed to him: "Let saints, let glorified spirits grasp _only_ the essence and dispense with the earthly pledge--I cannot! I am a type of the millions who live snared by the weaknesses, the ideas, the pleasures of the world of sense; do you suddenly require of me the abstract purity and spiritualization of religious thought, to which only the highest innate or required perfection leads? Be forbearing to me--God has various ways of drawing the rebellious to Him! To the soul which is capable of material ideas only. He gives revelations by the senses until, through pain and sorrow, it has worked its way upward to intellectual ones. And until I can behold the _real_ God in His shadowy sphere, I shall cling lovingly and devoutly to His _image_."

She sank on her knees before him in passionate entreaty. "Do not destroy it for me, rather aid the pious delusion which is to save me! Bear patiently with the woe of a soul seeking its salvation, and leave the rest to God!" She leaned her brow against the hand which hung by his side and was silent from excess of emotion.

The tall, stalwart man stood trembling as Abraham may have stood before the thicket when God stayed his uplifted arm and cried in tender love: "I will not accept thy sacrifice."

He had a presentiment that the victim would be snatched from him also, if he was too stern, and all the floods of his heart burst forth, all the flood gates of love and pity opened. Bending down, he held her head in a close, warm clasp between both hands, and touched her forehead with quivering lips.

A low cry of unutterable bliss, and she sank upon his breast; the next instant she lifted her warm rosy lips to his.

But he drew back a step in agonizing conflict; "No, Countess, for Heavens's sake no, it must not be."

"Why not?" she asked, her face blanching.

"Let me remain worthy of the miracle God has wrought upon you through me. If I am to represent Christ to you, I must at least feel and think as He did, so far as my human weakness will permit, or everything will be a deception."

The countess covered her face with her hands. "Ah, no one can utter such words who knows aught of love and longing!" she moaned between her set teeth in bitter scorn.

"Do you think so?" exclaimed Freyer, and the tone in which he spoke pierced her heart like a cry of pain. Drawing her hands from her face, he forced her to meet his glowing eyes: "Look at me and see whether the tears which now course down my cheeks express no love and longing. Look at yourself, your sweet, pouting lips, your sparkling eyes, all your radiant charms, and ask yourself whether a man into whose arms such a woman falls _can_ remain unmoved? When you have answered these questions, say to yourself: 'How that man must love his Saviour, if he buys with such sacrifices the right to wear His crown of thorns!' Perhaps you will then better understand what I said just now of the spirit and nature of Christ."

Countess Madeleine made no reply, but wringing her hands, bent her eyes on the ground.

"Have I wounded you, Countess?"

"Yes, unto death. But it is best so. I understand you. If I am to love you as Christ, you must _be_ Christ. And the more severe you are, the higher you raise me! Alas--the pain is keen!" She pressed her hand upon her heart as though to close a wound, a pathetic expression of resignation rested on her pallid face.

"Oh, Countess, do not make my task too hard for me. I am but mortal! Oh, how can I see you suffer? _I_ can renounce everything, but to hurt _you_ in doing so--is beyond my power."

"Do not say _you_ in this solemn hour! Call me by my name, I would fain hear it once from your lips!"

"And what _is_ your name?"

"Maria Magdalena."

"No. You call yourself so under the impression of the Passion Play."

"I was christened Maria Magdalena von Prankenberg."

"Maria Magdalena," he repeated, his eyes resting upon her with deep emotion as she stood before him, she whose bearing was usually so haughty, now humble, silent, submissive, like the Penitent before the Master. Suddenly, overpowered by his feelings, he extended his arms: "_My_ Magdalena."

"My Master, my salvation," she sobbed, throwing herself upon his breast. He clasped her with a divine gesture of love in his embrace.

"Oh, God she has flown hither like a frightened dove and nestled in my breast. Poor dove, I will conceal and protect you from every rude breeze, from every base touch of the world! Build your nest in my heart--here you shall rest in the peace of God!" He pressed her head close to his heart.

"How you tremble, dove! May I call you so?"

"Oh, forever!"

"Are you wearied by your long flight? Poor dove! Have you fluttered hither to me across the wild surges of the world, to bring the olive branch, the token of reconciliation, which makes my peace with things temporal and eternal? And must I now thrust you from me, saying as Christ said to Magdalene! 'Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father?' Shall I drive you forth again into this chaos, that the faithful wings which bore you on the right way may droop exhausted till you perish in the billows of the world?" He clasped her still more closely: "Oh, God! This cannot be Thy will! But I think I understand Thee, Omnipotent One--Thou hast _entrusted_ this soul to me, and I will guard it for Thee _loyally_!"

It was an hour of sacred happiness. Her head rested on his breast. Not a leaf stirred on the boughs. The dense shadow of the beeches surrounded them, separating them from the world as if the universe contained naught save this one spot of earth, and the dream of this moment.

"Tell me _one_ thing," she whispered, "only one, and I will suffer, atone, and purchase this hour of Heaven by any sacrifice: Do you love me?"

He looked at her, his whole soul in his eyes. "Must I _tell_ you so?" he asked mournfully. "What can it serve you to put your hand into the wound in my heart, and see how deep it is? You cannot cure it. Have you not felt, from the first moment, that some irresistible spell drew me to you, forcing me, the recluse, to come to you again and yet again? What was it that drove me from my couch early this morning and sent me hither to your closed house and deserted garden? What was it save love?"

"Ever since four o'clock I have wandered restlessly about with my eyes fixed on the shutters of your room, till the impetuous longing of my soul roused you and drew you from your warm bed into the chill morning air. Come, you are shivering, let me warm you, nestle in my arms and feel the glow of my heart."

He sat down on the bench under the arbor, and--he knew not how it happened--she clung to him like a child and he could not repulse her, he _could_ not! She stroked his long black locks with her little soft hand and rested her head against his cheek--she was the very embodiment of innocence, simplicity, girlish artlessness. And in low murmurs she poured out her whole heart to him as a child confides in its father. Without reserve, she told him all the bitter sorrow of her whole life--a life which had never known either love or happiness! Having lost her mother when a mere child, she had been educated by a cold-hearted governess and a pessimistic tutor. Her father, wholly absorbed by the whirl of fashionable life, had cared nothing for her, and when scarcely out of the school-room had compelled her to marry a rich old man with whom for eight years existence was one long torment. Then, in mortal fear lest her listener would not forgive her, yet faithful to the truth, she confessed also how her eager soul, yearning for love, had striven to find some compensation, rebelling against a law which recognized the utmost immorality as moral, till _sin_ itself seemed virtue compared to the wrong of such a bond. But as the forbidden draught did not quench her thirst, a presentiment came to her that she was longing for that spring of which Christ said: "But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst!" This had brought her here, and here had been opened the purifying, redeeming fount of life and love.

"Now you know all! My soul lies open before you! By the self denial with which I risked my highest blessing, _yourself_, and revealed my whole past life to you, you can judge whether I have been ennobled by your love." Slipping from his embrace, she sank on her knees before him: "Now judge the Penitent--I will accept from your hand whatever fate you may impose. But one thing I beseech you to do, whatever you may ask of me: remember _Christ_."

Freyer raised his large dark eyes. "I do remember Him." Bending toward her with infinite gentleness, he lifted her in his strong arms: "Come, Magdalena! I cannot condemn you," he said, and the Penitent again rested in the embrace of compassion.

"There are drops of cold perspiration on your brow," said Madeleine after a long silence. "Are you suffering?"

"I suffer gladly. Do not heed it!" he said with effort.

Then a glance of loving inquiry searched his inmost soul. "Do you regret the kiss which you just denied me?" she asked, scarcely above her breath, but the whispered question made him wince as though a probe had entered some hidden wound. She felt it, and some irresistible impulse urged her to again raise her pouting lips. He saw their rosy curves close to his own, and gently covered them with his hand. "Be true! Let us be loyal to each other. Do not make my lot harder than it is already! You do not know what you are unchaining." Starting up, he clasped his hands upon his breast, eagerly drinking in long draughts of the invigorating morning air. The gloomy fire which had just glowed in his eyes changed again to a pure, calm light. "This is so _beautiful_, do not disturb it," he said gently, kissing her on the forehead. "My child, my dove! Our love shall remain pure and sacred--shall it not?"

"Yes!" she murmured in reverent submission, for now he was once more the image of Christ, and she bent silently to kiss his hand. He did not resist, for he felt that it was a comfort to her. Then he disappeared, calm, lofty, like one who has stripped off the fetters of this world.

Madeleine von Wildenau was left alone. Pressing her forehead against the trunk of the tree, a rude but firm support, she had sunk back upon the bench, closing her eyes. Her heart was almost bursting with its seething tide of emotion. Tears coursed down her cheeks. God had given her so much, that she almost swooned under this wealth of happiness. Only a touch of pain could balance it, or it would be too great for mortal strength to bear. This pain was an unsatisfied yearning, a vague feeling that her destiny could only be fulfilled through this love, and that she was still so far from possessing it. God has ordained that the human heart can bear only a certain measure of happiness and, when this limit is passed, joy becomes pain because we are not to experience here on earth bliss which belongs to a higher stage of development. That is why the greatest joy brings tears, that is why, amid the utmost love, we believe that we have never loved enough, that is why, amid the excess of enjoyment, we are consumed with the desire for a rapture of which this is but a foretaste, that is why every pleasure teaches us to yearn for a new and greater one, so that we may _never_ be satisfied, but continually suffer.

There is but one power which, with strong hand, maintains the balance, teaches us to be sparing of joy, helps us endure pain, dams all the streams of desire and sends them back to toil and bear fruit within the soul: asceticism! It cuts with firm touch the luxuriant shoots from the tree of life, that its strength may concentrate within the marrow of the trunk and urge the growth _upward_. Asceticism! The bugbear of all the grown up children of this world. Wherever it appears human hearts are in a tumult as if death were at hand. Like flying ants bearing away their eggs to a place of safety, the disturbed consciences of worldlings anxiously strive to hide their secret desires and pleasures from the dreaded foe! But whoever dares to meet its eyes sees that it is not the bugbear which the apostles of reason and nature would fain represent it, no fleshless, bloodless shadow which strives to destroy the natural bond between the Creator and creation, but a being with a glowing heart, five wounds, and a brow bedewed with drops of sweat. Its office is stern and gloomy, its labor severe and thankless, for it has to struggle violently with rebellious souls and, save for the aid of the army of priests who have consecrated themselves to its service, it would succumb in the ceaseless struggle with materialism which is ever developing into higher consciousness! Yet whoever has once given himself to her service finds her a lofty, earnest, yet gracious goddess! She is the support of the feeble, the comforter of the unhappy and the solitary, the angel of the self-sacrificing. Whoever feels her hand upon a wounded, quivering heart, knows that she is the _benefactress_, not the taskmistress of humanity.

Nor does she always appear as the gloomy mourner beside the corpse of murdered joys. Sometimes roses wreath the thorn-scarred brow, and she becomes the priestess of love. When the world and its self-created duties rudely sunders two hearts which God created for each other and leaves them to waste away in mortal anguish, _she_ is the compassionate one. With sanctifying power she raises the struggling souls above the dividing barrier of temporal things, teaches them to trample the earth under their feet and unites them with an eternal bond in the purer sphere of _intellectual_ love. Thus she unites what _morality_ severs. _Morality_ alone is harsh, not asceticism. Morality pitilessly prescribes her laws, unheeding the weakness of poor human hearts, asceticism helps them to submit to them. Morality _demands_ obedience, asceticism _teaches_ it. Morality punishes, asceticism corrects. The former judges by appearances, the latter by the reality. Morality has only the reward of the _world_, asceticism of _Heaven_! Morality made Mary Magdalene an outcast, asceticism led her to the Lord and obtained His mercy for her.

And as the beautiful Magdalene of the present day sat with closed eyes, letting her thoughts be swept along upon the wildly foaming waves of her hot blood, she fancied that the bugbear once so dreaded because she had known it only under the guise of the fulfilment of base, loathsome duty was approaching. But this time the form appeared in its pure beauty, bent tenderly over her, a pallid shape of light, and gazed at her with the eyes of a friend! Low, mysterious words, in boding mournful tones, were murmured in her ears. As she listened, her tears flowed more gently, and with childlike humility she clasped the sublime vision and hid her face on its breast. Then she felt upon her brow a chill kiss, like a breath from the icy regions of eternal peace, and the apparition vanished. But as the last words of something heard in a dream often echo in the ears of the person awaking, the countess as she raised her closed lids, remembered nothing save the three words: "On the cross!" ...

CHAPTER XI.

MARY AND MAGDALENE.

"On the cross"--was it a consolation or a menace? Who could decipher this rune? It was like all the sayings of oracles. History would explain its meaning, and when this was done, it would be too late, for it would be fulfilled! The countess still sat motionless in the old arbor. Her destiny had commenced on the cross, that was certain. Hitherto she had been a blind blank, driven like thousands by the wheel of chance. She had first entered into communication with the systematic order of divine thought in the hour when she saw Joseph Freyer on the cross. Will her fate _end_ as it _began_, upon the cross? An icy chill ran through her veins. She loved the cross, since it bore the man whom she loved, but what farther influence was it to have upon her life! And what had pallid asceticism to do with her? What was the source of all these oppressive, melancholy forebodings, which could only be justified if a conflict with grave duties or constraining circumstances was impending. Why should they not love each other, both were free! But--she not only desired to love him, she wished to be _his_, to claim him _hers_. Every loving woman longs for the fulfilment of her destiny in the man she loves. How was she to obtain this fulfilment? What is born in morality, cannot exist in immorality. He knew this, felt it, and it was the cause of his sternness. This was the source of her grief, the visit of the mysterious comforter, and the warning of the cross. But must the brightest happiness, the beautiful bud of love wither on the cross, because it grew there? Was there no other sacred soil where it might thrive and develop to the most perfect flower? Was there no wedding altar, no sacrament of marriage? She drew back as if she suddenly stood on the verge of a yawning abyss. Her brain reeled! A throng of jeering spectres seemed grinning at her, watching with malicious delight the leap the Countess Wildenau was about to take, down to a peasant! She involuntarily glanced around as if some one might have been listening to the _thought_. But all was still and silent; her secret, thank Heaven, was still her own.

"Eternal Providence, what fate hast thou in store for me?" her questioning gaze asked the blue sky. What was the meaning of this extraordinary conflict? She loved Freyer as the God whom he represented, yet he could be hers only as a man; she must either resign him or the divine illusion. She felt that the instant which made him hers as a man would break the spell, and she would no longer love him! The God was too far above her to be drawn down to her level, the man was too low to be raised to it. Was ever mortal woman thus placed between two alternatives and told: "Choose!" The golden shower fell into Danae's lap, the swan flew to Leda, the bull bore Europa away, and Jupiter did not ask: "In what form do you wish me to appear?" But to the higher consciousness of the Christian woman the whole responsibility of free choice is given. And what is the reward of this torturing dilemma? If she chooses the God, she must resign the man, if she chooses the man she must sacrifice the God. Which can she renounce, which relinquish? She could not decide, and wrung her hands in agony. Why must this terrible discord be hers? Had she ventured too boldly into the sphere of divine life that, as if in mockery, she was given the choice between the immortal and the mortal in order, in the struggle between the two, to recognize the full extent of her weakness?

It seemed so! As if utterly wearied by the sore conflict, she hid her face in her hands and called to her aid the wan comforter who had just approached so tenderly. But in vain, the revelations were silent, the deity would not aid her!

"You ought to go up the mountain to-day, Countess," called a resonant voice. This time no pale phantom, no grimacing spectre stood before her, but her friend Ludwig, who gazed into her eyes with questioning sympathy. She clasped his hand.

"Whenever you approach me, my friend, I can never help receiving you with a 'Thank Heaven!' You are one of those whose very _presence_ is beneficial to the sufferer, as the physician's entrance often suffices to soothe the patient without medicines."

Ludwig sat down on the bench beside the countess. "My sisters and Josepha are greatly troubled because you have not yet ordered breakfast, and no one ventured to ask. So _I_ undertook the dangerous commission, and your Highness can see yonder at the door how admiringly my sisters' eyes are following me."

The countess laughed. "Dear me, am I so dreaded a tyrant?"

"No doubt you are a little inclined to be one," replied Ludwig, quizzically; "now and then a sharp point juts from a hidden coronet. I felt one myself yesterday?"

"When--how?"

"May I remind you of it?"

"Certainly."

"When you poured all your wrath upon poor Freyer, and resolved to leave Ammergau at once. Then I was puzzled for a moment."

"Really?" said the countess with charming embarrassment. "Then I was not mistaken--I perceived it, and therefore delayed sending the telegram. People ought not to take such passing ebullitions so seriously."

"Yes, Countess, but that 'passing ebullition,' might have made poor Freyer miserable for a long time. Pray, have more patience and tolerance in future. Natures so powerful and superior as yours fail to exert a destructive influence upon a circle of simple folk like ourselves, only when they show a corresponding degree of generosity, which suffices to excuse all our awkwardnesses. Otherwise you will some day thrust us down from the height to which you have raised us, and that would be far worse than if we had _never_ been withdrawn from our modest sphere."

"You are right!" said the countess, thoughtfully.

"My fear is that we are capable only of _rousing_ your interest, not _fixing_ it. We are on too unequal a footing, we feel and understand your spell, but are too simple and inexperienced not to be dazzled and confused by its ever varying phantasmagoria. Therefore, Countess, you are as great a source of peril as of happiness."

"Hm! I understand. But suppose that for the sake of you people of Ammergau I desired to return to plainness--and simplicity."

"You cannot, Countess, you are too young."

"What do you mean? That would be the very reason I should be able to do so."

"No, for you have passed the age when people easily accommodate themselves to new circumstances. Too many of the shoots of luxury have gained a generous growth; they will assert their claims and cannot be forced back into the seeds whence they came. Not until they have lived out their time in the world and died can they form the soil for a new and, if you desire it, more primitive and simple development!--Any premature attempt of this kind will last only a few moments and even these would be a delusion. But what to you would be passing moments of disappointment, to those who shared them would be--lifelong destiny. Our clumsy natures cannot make these graceful oscillations from one feeling to another, we stake all on one and lose it, if we are deceived."

The countess looked earnestly at him.

"You are a stern monitor, Ludwig Gross!" she said, thoughtfully. "Do you fear that I might play a game with one of you?"

"An unconscious one, Countess--as the waves toy with a drifting boat."

"Well, that would at least be no cruel one!" replied the lady, smiling.

"_Any_ sport, Countess, would be cruel, which tore one of these calm souls from its quiet haven here and set it adrift rudderless on the high sea of passion." He rose. "Pardon me--I am taking too much liberty."

"Not more than my friendship gave you a right to say. You brought your friend to me; you are right to warn me if you imagine I should heedlessly throw the priceless gift away! But, Ludwig Gross"--she took his hand--"do you know that I prize it so highly that I should not consider _myself_ too great a recompense? Do you know that you have just found me in a sore struggle over this problem?"

Ludwig Gross drew back a step as if he could not grasp the full meaning of the words. So momentous did they seem that he turned pale. "Is it possible?" he stammered.

A tremulous gesture of the hand warned him to say no more. "I don't know--whether it is possible! But that I could even _think_ of it, will enable you to imagine what value your gift possesses for me. Not a word, I beseech you. Give me time--and trust me. So many marvels have been wrought in me during the past few days, that I give myself up to the impulse of the moment and allow myself to be led by an ever-ruling Providence--I shall be dealt with kindly."

Ludwig, deeply moved, kissed his companion's hand. "Countess, the impulse which moves you at this moment must unconsciously thrill every heart in Ammergau--as the sleeping child feels, even in its dreams, when a good fairy approaches its cradle. And it is indeed so; for, in you conscious culture approaches unconscious nature--it is a sublime moment, when the highest culture, like the fairy beside the cradle, listens to the breathing of humanity, where completion approaches the source of being, and drinks from it fresh vigor."

"Yes," cried the countess, enthusiastically: "That is it. You understand me perfectly. All civilization must gain new strength from the fountain of nature or its sources of life would become dry--for they perpetually derive their nourishment from that inexhaustible maternal bosom. Where this is not accomplished in individual lives, the primeval element, thus disowned, avenges itself in great social revolutions, catastrophes which form epochs in the history of the world. It is only a pity that in such phases of violent renewal the labor of whole epochs of civilization is lost. Therefore souls in harmony with their age must try to reconcile peacefully what, taken collectively, assumes the proportions of contrasts destructive to the universe."

"And where could we find this reconciliation, save in love?" cried Ludwig, enthusiastically.

"You express it exactly: that is the perception toward which minds are more and more impelled, and whose outlines in art and science appear more and more distinctly. That is the secret of the influence of Parsifal, which extends far beyond the domain of art and, in another province, the success of the Passion Play! To one it revealed itself under one guise, to another under another. To me it was here that the very source of love appeared. And as you, who revealed it to me, are pervaded by the great lesson--I will test it first upon you. Brother! Friend! I will aid you in every strait and calamity, and you shall see that I exercise love, not only in words, but that the power working within me will accomplish deeds also." She clasped her hands imploringly: "And if I love one of you _more_ than the others, do not blame me. The nearer to the focus of light, the stronger the heat! He, that one, is surely the focus of the great light which, emanating from you, illumines the whole world. I am so near him--could I remain cold?"

"Ah, Countess--now I will cast aside all fears for my friend. In Heaven's name, take him. Even if he consumes under your thrall--pain, too, is godlike, and to suffer for _you_ is a grand, a lofty destiny, a thousand-fold fairer and better than the dull repose of an every day happiness."

"Good heavens, when have I ever heard such language!" exclaimed the countess, gazing admiringly at the modest little man, whose cheeks were glowing with the flush of the loftiest feeling. He stood before her in his plain working clothes, his clear-cut profile uplifted, his eyes raised with a searching gaze as if pursuing the vanishing traces of a lofty, unattainable goal.

She rose: "There is not a day, not an hour here, which does not bring me something grand. Woe befall me if I do not show myself worthy of the obligation your friendship imposes, I should be more guilty than those to whom the summons of the ideal has never come; who have never stood face to face with men like you."

Ludwig quietly held out his hand and clasped hers closely in her own. The piercing glance of his artist-eye seemed to read the inmost depths of her soul.

After a long pause Madeleine von Wildenau interrupted the silence: "There stands your sister in great concern over my bodily welfare! Well then, let us remember that we are human--unfortunately! Will you breakfast with me?"

"I thank you, I have already breakfasted," said Ludwig, modestly, motioning to Sephi to be ready.

"Then at least bear me company." Taking his arm, she went with him to the arbor covered with a wild grape-vine where the table was spread. She sat down to the simple meal, while her companion served her with so much tact and grace that she could not help thinking involuntarily; "And these are peasants? What ought we aristocrats to be?" Then, as if in mockery of this reflection, a man in his shirt-sleeves with his jacket flung over his arm and a scythe in his hand passed down the street by the fence. "Freyer!" exclaimed the countess, her face aflame: "The Messiah with a scythe?"

Freyer stopped. "You called me, Countess?"

"Where are you going with that implement, Herr Freyer?" she asked, coldly, in evident embarrassment.

"To mow my field!" he answered quietly. "I have just time, and I want to try to harvest a little hay. Almost everything goes to ruin during the Passion!"

"But why do you cut it yourself?"

"Because I have no servant, Countess!" said Freyer, smiling, raised his hat with the dignified gesture characteristic of him, and moved on as firmly and proudly as though the business he was pursuing was worthy of a king. And so it was, when _he_ pursued it. A second blush crimsoned Madeleine von Wildenau's fair forehead. But this time it was because she had been ashamed of him for a moment. "Poor Freyer! His little patrimony was a patch of ground, and should it be accounted a degradation that he must receive the scanty gift of nature directly from her hand, or rather win it blade by blade in the sweat of his brow?" So she reasoned.

Then he glanced back at her and she felt that the look, outshining the sun, had illuminated her whole nature. The fiery greeting of a radiant soul! She waved her white hand to him, and he again raised his hat.

"Where is Freyer's field?"

"Not far from us, just outside the village. Would you like to go there?"

"No, it would trouble me. I should not like to see him toiling for his daily bread. Men such as he ought not to find it necessary, and it must end in some way. God sent me here to equalize the injustice of fate."

"You cannot accomplish this with Freyer, Countess, he would have been a rich man long ago, if he had been willing to accept anything. What do you imagine he has had offered by ladies who, from sacred and selfish motives, under the influence of his personation of the Christ, were ready to make any sacrifice? If ever poverty was an honor to a man, it is to Freyer, for he might have been in very different circumstances and instead is content with the little property received from his father, a bit of woodland, a field, and a miserable little hut. To keep the nobility and freedom of his soul, he toils like a servant and cares for house, field, and wood with his own hands."

"Just see him now, Countess," he added, "You have never beheld any man look more aristocratic while at work than he, though he only wields a scythe."

"You are a loyal friend, Ludwig Gross," she answered. "And an eloquent advocate! Come, take me to him."

She hurried into the house, returning with a broad-brimmed hat on her head, which made her face look as blooming and youthful as a girl's. Long undressed kid gloves covered her arms under the half flowing sleeves of her gown, and she carried over her shoulder a scarlet sunshade which surrounded her whole figure with a roseate glow. There was a warmth, a tempting charm in her appearance like the velvety bloom of a ripe peach. Ludwig Gross gazed at her in wonder.

"You are--_fatally_ beautiful!" he involuntarily exclaimed, shaking his head mournfully, as we do when we see some inevitable disaster approaching a friend. "No one ought to be so beautiful," he added, disapprovingly.

Madeleine von Wildenau laughed merrily. "Oh! you comical friend, who offers with so sour a visage the most flattering compliments possible. Our young society men might take lessons from you! Pardon me for laughing," she said apologetically, as Ludwig's face darkened. "But it came so unexpectedly, I was not prepared for such a compliment here," and in spite of herself, she laughed again, the compliment was too irresistible.

Her companion was deeply offended. He saw in this outbreak of mirth a levity which outraged his holiest feelings. These were "the graceful oscillations from one mood to another," as he had termed it that day, which he had so dreaded for his friend, and which now perplexed his own judgment!

A moment was sufficient to reveal this to the countess, in the next she had regained her self-control and with it the power of adapting herself to the earnestness of her friend's mood.

He was walking silently at her side with a heavy heart. There had been something in that laugh which he could not fathom, readily as he grasped any touch of humor. To the earnest woman he had seen that morning, he would have confided his friend in the belief that he was fulfilling a lofty destiny; to the laughing, coquettish woman of the world, he grudged him; Joseph Freyer was far too good for such a fate.

They had walked on, each absorbed in thought, leaving the village behind, into the open country. Few people were at work, for during the Passion there is rarely time to till the fields.

"There he is!" Ludwig pointed to a man swinging his scythe with a powerful arm. The countess had dreaded the sight, yet now stood watching full of admiration, for these movements were as graceful as his gestures. The natural symmetry which was one of his characteristic qualities rendered him a picturesque figure even here, while toiling in the fields. His arms described rhythmically returning circles so smoothly, the poise of the elastic body, bending slightly forward, was so noble, and he performed the labor so easily that it seemed like a graceful gymnastic exercise for the training of the marvellous limbs. The countess gazed at him a long time, unseen.

A woman's figure, bearing a jug, approached from the opposite side of the meadow and offered Freyer a drink. "I have brought some milk. You must be thirsty, it is growing warm," the countess heard her say. She was a gracious looking woman, clad in simple country garb, evidently somewhat older than Freyer, but with a noble, virginal bearing and features of classic regularity. Every movement was dignified, and her expression was calm and full of kindly earnestness.

"I ought to know her," said the countess in a strangely sharp tone.

"Certainly. She is the Mother of God in the Passion Play, Anastasia Gross, the burgomaster's sister."

"Yes, the Mary!" said the countess, and again she remembered how the two, mother and son, had remained clasped in each other's arms far longer than seemed to her necessary. What unknown pang was this which now pierced her heart? "I suppose they are betrothed?" she asked, with quickened breath.

"Who can tell? We think she loves him, but no one knows Freyer's feelings!" said Ludwig.

"I don't understand, since you are such intimate friends, why you should not know!"

"I believe, Countess, if we people of Ammergau have any good quality, it is discretion. We do not ask even the most intimate friend anything which he does not confide to us."

Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes in confusion. After a short struggle she said with deadly sternness and bitterness: "You were right this morning--the man must be left _in his sphere_. Come, let us go back!" A glance from Ludwig's eyes pierced her to the heart. She turned back toward the village. But Freyer had already seen her and overtook her with the speed of thought.

"Why, Countess, you here? And"--his eyes, fierce with pain, rested enquiringly on hers as he perceived their cold expression, "and you were going to leave me without a word of greeting? Were you ashamed to speak to the poor peasant who was mowing his grass? Or did my dress shock you?" He was so perfectly artless that he did not even interpret her indignation correctly, but attributed it to an entirely different cause. This did not escape the keen intuition of a woman so thoroughly versed in affairs of the heart. But when a drop of the venom of jealousy has entered the blood, it requires some time ere it is absorbed, even though the cause of the mischief has long been removed. This is an old experience, as well as the fact that, this process once over, repentance is all the sweeter, love the more passionate. But the poor simple-hearted peasant, in his artlessness, could not perceive all this. He was merely ashamed of standing before the countess in his shirt sleeves and hurriedly endeavored, with trembling fingers, to fasten his collar which he had opened while at work, baring his throat and chest. It seemed as if the hot blood could be heard pulsing against the walls of his arched chest, like the low murmur of the sea. The labor, the increasing heat of the sun, and the excitement of the countess' presence had quickened the usually calm flow of his blood till it fairly seethed in his veins, glowing in roseate life through the ascetic pallor of the skin, while the swelling veins stood forth in a thousand beautiful waving lines like springs welling from white stone. Both stood steeped in the fervid warmth, one absorbing, the other reflecting it.

But with the cruelty of love, which seeks to measure the strength of responsive passion by the very pain it has the power to inflict, the beautiful woman curbed the fire kindled in her own pulses and said carelessly: "We have interrupted your tete-a-tete, we will make amends by retiring."

"Countess!" he exclaimed with a look which seemed to say: "Is it possible that you can be so unjust! My _Mother_, Mary, was with me, she brought her son something to refresh him at his work, why should you interrupt us?"

The simple words, which to her had so subtle a double meaning, explained everything and Madeleine von Wildenau felt, with deep embarrassment, that he understood her and that she must appear very petty in his eyes.

Ludwig Gross drew out his watch. "Excuse me, it is nine o'clock; I must go to my drawing-school." He bowed and left them, without shaking hands with the countess as usual. She felt it as a rebuke, and a voice in her heart said: "You must become a far better woman ere you are worthy of this man."

"Would not you like to know Mary? May I introduce her to you?" asked Freyer, when they were alone.

"Oh, it is not necessary."

"Why, how can you love the son and not care for the mother?"

"She is _not_ your mother," replied the countess.

"And _I_ am not the Christ. Why does the illusion affect me, and not Mary?"

"Because it was perfect in you, but not in her."

"Then there is still more reason to know her, that her personality may complete what her personation lacked."

The countess cast a gloomy look at the tall maiden, who meanwhile had taken the scythe and was doing Freyer's work.

"She seems to be very devoted to you," she said suspiciously.

"Yes, thank Heaven, we are loyal friends."

"I suppose you call each other thou."

"Yes, all the Ammergau people do that, when they have been schoolmates."

"That is a strange custom. Is it practised by those in both high and low stations?"

"There are neither high nor low stations among us. We all stand on the same footing, Countess. The fact that one is richer, another poorer, that one can do more for education and external appearances than his neighbor makes no difference with us and, if it did, it would be an honor for me to be permitted to address Anastasia with the familiar thou, for she and the whole Gross family are far above me. Even in your sense of the word, Countess, the burgomaster is an aristocrat, no child of nature like myself, but a man familiar with social usages and thoroughly well educated."

"Well, then," cried the countess, "why don't you marry the lady, if she possesses such superior advantages?"

"Marry?" Freyer started back as if instead of Madeleine's beautiful face he had suddenly beheld some hideous vision, "I have never thought of it!"

"Why not?"

"The Christ wed Mary? The son the mother? No, though we are not what we represent, _that_ would be impossible. I have become so accustomed to regard her as my mother that it would seem to me a profanation."

"But next winter, when the Play is over, it will be different."

"And _you_ say this to me, Countess; _you_, after this morning?" cried Freyer, with a trembling voice. "Are you in earnest?"

"Certainly. I cannot expect you, for my sake, to neglect older claims upon your heart!"

"Countess, if I had older claims, would I have spoken to you as I did to-day, would the events have occurred which happened to-day? Can you believe such things of me? You are silent? Well, Countess, that may be the custom in your circle, but not in mine."

"Forgive me, Freyer!" stammered the lady, turning pale.

"Freyer shaded his eyes with his hand as if the sun dazzled him, in order to conceal his rising tears.

"For what are you looking?" asked the countess, who thought he was trying to see more distinctly.

He turned his face, eloquent with pain, full toward her. "I was looking to see where my dove had flown, I can no longer find her. Or was it all a dream?"

"Freyer!" cried the countess, utterly overwhelmed, slipping her hand through his arm and resting her head without regard for possible spectators on his heaving breast. "Joseph, your dove has not flown away, she is here, take her to your heart again and keep her forever, forever, if you wish."

"Take care, Countess," said Freyer, warningly, "there are people moving in all directions."

She raised her head. "Will it cause you any harm?" she asked, abashed.

"Not me, but you. I have no one to question me and could only be proud of your tokens of favor, but consider what would be said in your own circle, if it were rumored that you had rested your head on a peasant's breast."

"You are no peasant, you are an artist."

"In your eyes, but not in those of the world. Even though we do passably well in wood-carving and in the Passion Play, so long as we are so poor that we are compelled to till our fields ourselves, and bring the wood for our carvings from the forest with our own hands, we shall be ranked as peasants, and no one will believe that we are anything else. You will be blamed for having associated with such uncultured people."

"Oh, I will answer for that before the whole world."

"That would avail little, my beloved one, Heaven forbid that I should ever so far forget myself as to boast of your love before others, or permit you to do anything which they would misjudge. God alone understands what we are to each other, and therefore it must remain hidden in His bosom where no profane eye can desecrate it."

The countess clung closer to him in silent admiration. She remembered so many annoyances caused by the indiscretions due to the vanity of men whom she had favored, that this modest delicacy seemed so chivalrous and lofty that she would fain have fallen at his feet.

"Dove, have I found you again?" he said, gazing into her eyes. "My sweet, naughty dove! You will never more wound and wrong me so. I feel that you might break my heart" And pressing her arm lightly to his side, he raised her hand to his burning lips.

A glow of happiness filled Madeleine von Wildenau's whole being as she heard the stifled, passionate murmur of love. And as, with every sunbeam, the centifolia blooms more fully, revealing a new beauty with each opening petal, so too did the soul of the woman thus illumined by the divine ray of true love.

"Come," she said suddenly, "take me to the kind creature who so tenderly ministers to you, perhaps suffers for you. I now feel drawn toward her and will love her for your sake as your mother, Mary."

"Ah, my child, that is worthy of you! I knew that you were generous and noble! Come, my Magdalene, I will lead you to Mary."

They walked rapidly to the field where Anastasia was busily working. The latter, seeing the stranger approach, let down the skirt she had lifted and adjusted her dress a little, but she received the countess without the least embarrassment and cordially extended her hand. _Her_ bearing also had a touch of condescension, which the great lady especially noticed. Anastasia gazed so calmly and earnestly at her that she lowered her eyes as if unable to bear the look of this serene soul. The smoothly brushed brown hair, the soft indistinctly marked brows, the purity of the features, and the virginal dignity throned on the noble forehead harmonized with the ideal of the Queen of Heaven which the countess had failed to grasp in the Passion Play. She was beautiful, faultless from head to foot, yet there was nothing in her appearance which could arouse the least feeling of jealousy. There was such spirituality in her whole person--something--the countess could not describe it in any other way--so expressive of the sober sense of age, that the beautiful woman was ashamed of her suspicion. She now understood what Freyer meant when he spoke of the maternal relation existing between Anastasia and himself. She was the true Madonna, to whom all eyes would be lifted devoutly, reverently, yet whom no man would desire to press to his heart. She was probably not much older than the countess, two or three years at most, but compared with her the great lady, so thoroughly versed in the ways of the world, was but an immature, impetuous child. The countess felt this with the secret satisfaction which it affords every woman to perceive that she is younger than another, and it helped her to endure the superiority which Anastasia's lofty calmness maintained over her. Nay, she even accepted the inferior place with a coquettish artlessness which made her appear all the more youthful. Yet at the very moment she adopted the childish manner, she secretly felt its reality. She was standing in the presence of the Mother of God. Womanly nature had never possessed any charm for her, she had never comprehended it in any form. She had never admired any of Raphael's Madonnas, not even the Sistine. A woman interested her only as the object of a man's love for which she might envy her, the contrary character, the ascetic beauty of an Immaculate was wholly outside of her sphere. Now, for the first time in her life, she was interested in a personality of this type, because she suddenly realized that the Virgin was also the Mother of the Saviour. And as her love for the Christ was first awakened by her love for Joseph Freyer, her reverence for Mary was first felt when she thought of her as his mother! Madeleine von Wildenau, so poor in the treasures of the heart, the woman who had never been a mother, suddenly felt--even while in the act of playing with practised coquetry the part of childlike ignorance--under the influence of the man she loved, the _reality_ in the farce and her heart opened to the sacred, mysterious bond between the mother and the child. Thus, hour by hour, she grew out of the captivity of the world and the senses, gently supported and elevated by the might of that love which reconciles earth and heaven.

She held out one hand to Anastasia, the other to Freyer. "I, too, would fain know the dear mother of our Christ!" she said, with that sweet, submissive grace which the moment had taught her. Freyer's eyes rested approvingly upon her. She felt as if wings were growing on her shoulders, she felt that she was beautiful, good, and beloved; earth could give no more.

Anastasia watched the agitated woman with the kindly, searching gaze of a Sister of Charity. Indeed, her whole appearance recalled that of one of these ministering spirits, resigned without sentimentality; gentle, yet energetic; modest, yet impressive.

"I felt a great--" the countess was about to say "admiration," but this was not true, she admired her now for the first time! She stopped abruptly in the midst of her sentence, she could utter no stereotyped compliments at this moment. With quiet dignity, like a princess giving audience, Anastasia came to her assistance, by skilfully filling up the pause: "So this is your first visit to Ammergau?"

"Yes."

"Then you have doubtless been very much impressed?"

"Oh, who could remain cold, while witnessing such a spectacle?"

"Yes, is not our Christ perfect?" said Anastasia, smiling proudly. "He costs people many tears. But even _I_ cannot help weeping, and I have played it with him thirty times." She passed her hand across his brow with a tender, maternal caress, as if she wished to console him for all his sufferings. "Does it not seem as if we saw the Redeemer Himself?"

The countess watched her with increasing sympathy. "You have a beautiful soul! Your friend was right, people should know you to receive the full impression of Mary."

"Yes, I play it too badly," replied Anastasia, whose native modesty prevented her recognition of the flattery conveyed in the countess' words.

"No--badly is not the word. But the delicate shadings of the feminine nature are lost in the vast space," the other explained.

"It may be so," replied Anastasia, simply. "But that is of no importance; no matter how we others might play--_he_ would sustain the whole."

"And your brother, Anastasia, and all the rest--do you forget them?" said Freyer, rebukingly.

"Yes, dear Anastasia." The countess took Freyer's hand. "I have given my soul into the keeping of this Christ--but your brother's performance is also a masterpiece! It seems to me that you are unjust to him. And also to Pilate, whom I admired, the apostles and high-priests."

"Perhaps so. I don't know how the others act--" said Mary with an honesty that was fairly sublime. "I see only him, and when he is not on the stage I care nothing for the rest of the performance. It is because I am his _mother_: to a mother the son is beyond everything else," she added, calmly.

The countess looked at her in astonishment. Was it possible that a woman could love in this way? Yet there was no doubt of it. Had even a shadow of longing to be united to the man she loved rested on the soul of this girl, she could not have had thus crystalline transparency and absolute freedom from embarrassment.

These Madonnas are happy beings! she thought, yet she did not envy this calm peace.

Drawing off her long glove with much difficulty, she took a ring from her finger. "Please accept this from me as a token of the secret bond which unites us in love for--your son! We will be good friends."

"With all my heart!" said Anastasia in delight, holding out her sunburnt finger to receive the gift. "What will my brother say when I come home with such a present?" She gratefully kissed the donor's hand. "You are too kind, Countess--I don't know how I deserve it." She stooped and lifted her jug. "I must go home now to help my sister-in-law. You will visit us, won't you? My brother will be so pleased."

"Very gladly--if you will allow me," replied the lady, smiling.

"I beg you to do so!" said Anastasia with ready tact. Then with noble dignity, she moved away across the fields, waving her hand from the distance to the couple she had left behind, as if to say: "Be happy!"

CHAPTER XII.

BRIDAL TORCHES.

"Magdalene--Wife--Angel--what shall I call you?" cried Freyer, extending his arms. "Oh, if only we were not in the open fields, that I might press you to my heart and thank you for being so kind--so _generous_ and so kind."

"Does your heart at last yearn for me? Then let us come into the forest, where no one is watching us save holy nature. Take me up one of the mountains. Will you? Can you? Will not your hay spoil?"

"_Let_ it spoil, what does that matter? But first you must allow me to go home to put on garments more suitable for your society."

"No, that will be too late! Remain as you are--you are handsome in any clothes," she whispered, blushing faintly, like a girl, while she lowered her eyes from the kingly figure to the ground. A happy smile flitted over her face. Stooping, she picked up the jacket which he had removed while doing his work.

"And you--are you equipped for mountain climbing?"

"Oh, we will not go far. Not farther than we can go and return in time for dinner."

"Come, then. If matters come to the worst, I will take my dove on my shoulder and carry her when she can walk no farther."

"Oh, happy freedom!" cried the countess, joyously! "To wander through the woods, like two children in a fairy tale, enchanted by some wicked fairy and unable to appear again until after a thousand years! Oh, poetry of childhood--for the first time you smile upon me in all your radiance. Come, let us hasten--it is so beautiful that I can hardly believe it. I shall not, until we are there."

She flew rather than walked by his side. "My dove--suppose that we were enchanted and forced to remain in the forest together a thousand years?"

"Let us try it!" she whispered, fixing her eyes on his till he murmured, panting for breath: "I believe--the spell is beginning to work." And his eyes glowed with a gloomy fire as he murmured, watching her: "Who knows whether I am not harboring the Lorelei herself, who is luring me into her kingdom to destroy me!"

"What do you know of the Lorelei?"

Freyer stopped. "Do you suppose I read nothing? What else should I do during the long evenings, when wearied by my work, I am resting at home?"

"Really?" she asked absently, drawing him forward.

"Do you suppose I could understand a woman like you if I had not educated myself a little? Alas, we cannot accomplish much when the proper foundation is lacking. The untrained memory retains nothing firmly except what passes instantly into flesh and blood, the perception of life as it is reflected to us from the mirror of art. But even this reflection is sometimes distorted and confuses our natural thoughts and feelings. Alas, dear one, a person who has learned nothing correctly, and yet knows the yearning for something higher, without being able to satisfy it--is like a lost soul that never attains the goal for which it longs."

"My poor friend, I do know that feeling--to a certain extent it is the same with us women. We, too, have the yearning for education, and finally attain only a defective amount of knowledge! But, by way of compensation, individuality, directness, intuitiveness are developed all the more fully. You did not need to know anything--your influence is exerted through your personality; as such you are great. All knowledge comes from man, and is attainable by him--the divine gift of individuality can neither be gained, nor bestowed, any more than intuition! What is all the logic of reflecting reason compared with the gift of intuition, which enabled you to assume the part of a God? Is not that a greater marvel than the hard-won result of systematic study at the desk?"

"You are a kind comforter!" said Freyer.

"Thinking makes people old!" she continued. "It has aged the human race, too.--Nature, simplicity, love must restore its youth! In them is _direct_ contact with the deity; in civilization only an indirect one. Fortunately for me, I have put my lips to their spring. Oh, eternal fountain of human nature, I drink from you with eager draughts."

They had entered the forest--the tree-tops rustled high above their heads and at their feet rippled a mountain stream. Madeleine von Wildenau was silent--her heart rested on her friend's broad breast, heaving with the rapid throbbing of his heart, her supple figure had sunk wearily down by his side. "Say no more--not a word is needed here." The deep gloom of the woods surrounded them--a sacred stillness and solitude. "On every height there dwells repose!" echoed in soft melody above her head, the marvellous Rubinstein-Goethe song. There was no human voice, it seemed like a mere breath from the distance of a dream--like the wind sweeping over the chords of the cymbal hung by Lenau's gypsy on a tree, scarcely audible, already dying away again. Her ear had caught the notes of that AEolian harp once before: she knew them again; on the cross--with the words: "Into _thy_ hands I commend my spirit." And sweet as the voice which spoke at that time was now the tenor that softly, softly hushed the restless spirit of the worldling to slumber. "Wait; soon, soon--" and then the notes gradually rose till the whole buzzing, singing woodland choir seemed to join in the words: "Thou, too, shalt soon rest."

The mysterious sound came from the depths of the great heart on which she rested, as if the soul had quitted the body a few moments and now, returning, was revealing with sweet lamentation what it had beheld in the invisible world.

"Are you weeping?" he asked tenderly, kissing the curls which clustered round her forehead: "_My child_."

"Oh, when you utter that word, I have a feeling which I never experienced before. Yes, I am, I wish to be a child in your hands. Only those who have ever tasted the delight of casting the burden of their own egoism upon any altar, whether it be religion or love--yielding themselves up, becoming absorbed in another, higher power--_only those_ can know my emotions when I lean on your breast and you call me your child! Thus released from ourselves, thus free and untrammelled must we feel when we have stripped off in death the fetters of the body and merged all which is personal to us in God."

"Heaven has destined you for itself, and you already feel how it is loosening your fibres and gradually drawing you up out of the soil in which you are rooted. That is why you wept when I sang that song to you here in the quiet woodland solitude. Such tears are like the drops the tree weeps, when a name is cut upon it. At such moments you feel the hand of God tearing open the bark which the world has formed around your heart, and the sap wells from the wounded spot. Is it not so?" He gently passed his hand over her eyes, glittering with unshed tears.

"Ah, noble soul! How you penetrate the depths of my being! What is all the wit and wisdom of the educated mind, compared with the direct inspiration of your poetic nature. Freyer, Spring of the earth--Christ, Spring of humanity! My heart is putting forth its first blossom for you, take it." She threw herself with closed eyes upon his breast, as if blindly. He clasped her in a close embrace, holding her a long time silently in his arms. Then he said softly: "I will accept the beautiful blossom of your heart, my child, but not for myself." He raised his eyes fervently upward: "Oh, God, Thou hast opened Thy hand to the beggar, and made him rich that he may sacrifice to Thee what no king could offer. I thank Thee."

Something laughed above their heads--it was a pair of wild-doves, cooing in the green tent over them.

"Do you know why they are laughing?" asked the countess, in an altered tone. "They are laughing at us!"

"Magdalena!"

"Yes! They are laughing at the self-tormenting doubt of God's goodness. Look around you, see the torrent foaming, and the blue gentians drinking its spray, see the fruit-laden hazel, the sacred tree which sheltered your childhood; see the bilberries at your feet, all the intoxicating growth and movement of nature, and then ask yourself whether the God who created all this warm, sunny life is a God who only _takes_--not _gives_. Do you believe He would have prepared for us this Spring of love, that we may let its blossoms wither on the cold altar of duty or of prejudice? No--take what He bestows--and do not question."

"Do not lead me into temptation, Magdalena!" he gently entreated. "I told you this morning that you do not know what you are unloosening."

He stood before her as if transfigured, his eyes glowed with the sombre fire which had flashed in them a moment early that morning, a rustling like eagle's pinions ran through the forest--Jupiter was approaching in human form.

The beautiful woman sat down on a log with her hands clasped in her lap.

"A man like me loves but once, but with his whole being. I _demand_ nothing--but what is given to me is given _wholly_, or not at all; for if I once have it, I will never give it up save with my life!

"Not long since a stranger came here, who sang the song of the Assras, who die when they love. I believe I am of their race. Woman, do not toy, do not trifle with me! For know--I love you with the fatal love of those 'Assras.'"

Madeleine von Wildenau trembled with delight.

"If I once touch your lips, the barrier between us will have fallen! Will you forgive me if the flood-tide of feeling sweeps me away till I forget who you are and what a gulf divides the Countess Wildenau from the low-born peasant?"

"Oh, that you can remind me of it--in this hour--!" cried the countess, with sorrowful reproach.

He looked almost threateningly into her eyes. The dark locks around his head seemed to stir like the bristling mane of a lion: "Woman, you do not know me! If you deceive me, you will betray the most sacred emotion ever felt by mortal man--and it will be terribly avenged. Then the flame you are kindling will consume either you or me, or both. You see that I am now a different man. Formerly you have beheld me only when curbed by the victorious power of my holy task. You have conjured up the spirits, now they can no longer be held in thrall--will you not be terrified by the might of a passion which is unknown to you people of the world, with your calm self-control?"

"_I_, terrified by you?" cried the proud woman in a tone of exultant rapture. "Oh, this is power, this is the very breath of the gods. Should I fear amid the element for which I longed--which was revealed to me in my own breast? Does the flame fear the fire? The Titaness dread the Titan? Ah, Zeus, hurl thy thunderbolt, and let the forest blaze as the victorious torch of nature at last released from her long bondage."

He sat down by her side, his fiery breath fanning her cheek. "Then you will try it, will give me the kiss I dared not take to-day?"

"Yes."

"But it will be a betrothal kiss."

"Yes."

He opened his arms, and as a black moth settles upon a fragrant tea-rose, hovering on its velvet wings above the dewy calyx, he bent his head to hers, shadowing her with his dark locks and pressed his first kiss upon Madeleine von Wildenau's quivering lips.

But such moments tempt the gods themselves, and Jupiter hovered over the pair, full of wrath, for he envied the Christian mortal the beautiful woman. He had heard her laughingly challenge him in the midst of the joy she had stolen from the gods, and the heavens darkened, the hurricane saddled the steeds of the storm, awaiting his beck, and down flashed the fire from the sky--a shrill cry rent the air, the highest tree in the forest was cleft asunder and the bridal torch lighted by Jupiter blazed aloft.

"The gods are averse to it," said Freyer, gloomily. "Defy them!" cried the countess, starting up; "they are powerless--we are in the hands of a Higher Ruler."

"Woman, you do not belong to this world, or you have no nerves which can tremble."

"Tremble?" She laughed happily. "Tremble, by _your_ side?" Then, nestling closer still, she murmured: "I am as cowardly as ever woman was, but where I love I have the courage to defy death. Even were I to fall now beneath a thunderbolt, could I have a fairer death than at _this_ moment? You would willingly die for your Christ--and I for mine."

"Well then, come, you noble woman, that I may shield you as well as I can! Now we shall see whether God is with us! I defy the elements!" He proudly clasped the object of his love in his arms and bore her firmly on through the chaos into which the whole forest had fallen. The tempest, howling fiercely, burst its way through the woods. The boughs snapped, the birds were hurled about helplessly. The destroying element seemed to come from both heights and depths at the same time, for it shook the earth and tore the roots of trees from the ground till the lofty trunks fell shattered and, rolling down the mountain, swept everything with them in the sudden ruin. With fiendish thirst for battle the fiery sword flamed from the sky amid the uproar, dealing thrust after thrust and blow after blow--while here and there scarlet tongues of flame shot hissing upward through the dry branches.

A torrent of rain now dashed from the clouds but without quenching the flames, whose smoke was pressed down into the tree-tops, closely interlaced by the tempest. Like a gigantic black serpent, it rolled its coils from every direction, stifling, suffocating with the glowing breath of the forest conflagration, and the undulating cloud body bore with it in glittering, flashing sparks, millions of burning pine needles.

"Well, soul of fire, is the heat fierce enough for you now?" asked Freyer, pressing the beautiful woman closer to his side to shield her with his own body: "Are you content now?"

"Yes," she said, gasping for breath, and the eyes of both met, as if they felt only the fire in their own hearts and had blended this with the external element into a single sea of flame.

Nearer, closer drew the fire in ever narrowing circles around the defiant pair, more and more sultry became the path, brighter grew the hissing blaze through which they were compelled to force their way. Now on the left, now on the right, the red-eyed conflagration confronted them amid the clouds of smoke and flame, half stifled by the descending floods of rain, yet pouring from its open jaws hot, scorching steam--fatal to laboring human chests--and obliged the fugitives to turn back in search of some new opening for escape.

"If the rain ceases, we are lost!" said the countess with the utmost calmness. "Then the fire will be sole ruler."

Freyer made no reply. Steadily, unflinchingly, he struggled on, grasping with the strength of a Titan the falling boughs which threatened the countess' life, shielding with both arms her uncovered head from the flying sparks, and ever and anon, sprinkling her hair and garments from some bubbling spring. The water in the brooks was already warm. Throngs of animals fleeing from the flames surrounded them, and birds with scorched wings fell at their feet. It was no longer possible to go down, the fire was raging below them. They were compelled to climb up the mountain and seek the summit.

"Only have courage--forward!" were Freyer's sole words. And upward they toiled--through the pathless woods, through underbrush and thickets, over roots of trees, rolling stones, and rocks, never pausing, never taking breath, for the flames were close at their heels, threatening them with their fiendish embrace. Where the path was too toilsome, Freyer lifted the woman he loved in his arms and bore her over the rough places.

At last the woods grew thinner, the boundary of the flames was passed, they had reached the top--were saved. The neighing steeds of the wind received them on the barren height and strove to hurl them back into the fiery grave, but Freyer's towering form resisted their assault and, with powerless fury, they tore away the rocks on the right and left and rolled them thundering down into the depths below. The water pouring from the clouds drenched the lovers like a billow from the sea, beating into their eyes, mouths, and ears till, blinded and deafened, they were obliged to grope their way along the cliff. The garments of the beautiful Madeleine von Wildenau hung around her in tatters, heavy as lead, her hair was loosened, dripping and dishevelled, she was trembling from head to foot with cold in the icy wind and rain here on the heights, after the heat and terror below in the smouldering thicket.

"I know where there is a herder's hut, I'll take you to it. Cling closely to me, we must climb still higher."

They silently continued the ascent.

The countess staggered with fatigue. Freyer lifted her again in his arms, and, by almost superhuman exertion, bore her up the last steep ascent to the hut. It was empty. He placed the exhausted woman on the herder's straw pallet, where she sank fainting. When she regained her consciousness she was supported in Freyer's arms, and her face was wet with his tears. She gazed at him as if waking to the reality of some beautiful dream. "Is it really you?" she asked, with such sweet childlike happiness, as she threw her arms around him, that the strong man's brain and heart reeled as if his senses were failing.

"You are alive, you are safe?" He could say no more. He kissed her dripping garments her feet, and tenderly examined her beautiful limbs to assure himself that she had received no injury. "Thank Heaven!" he cried joyously, amid his tears, "you are safe!" Then, half staggering, he rose: "Now, in the presence of the deadly peril we have just escaped, tell me whether you really love me, tell me whether you are mine, _wholly_ mine! Or hurl me down into the blazing forest--it would be more merciful, by Heaven! than to deceive me."

"Joseph!" cried the countess, clinging passionately to him. "Can you ask that--now?"

"Alas! I cannot understand how a poor ignorant man like me can win the love of such a woman. What can you love, save the illusion of the Christ, and when that has vanished--what remains?"

"The divine, the real _love_!" replied the countess with a lofty expression.

"Oh, I believe that you are sincere. But if you have deceived yourself, if you should ever perceive that you have overestimated me--ah, it would be far better for me to be lying down below amid the flames than to experience _that_. There is still time--consider well, and say--what shall it be?"

"Consider?" replied the countess, drawing his head down to hers. "Tell the torrent to consider ere it plunges over the cliff, to dissolve into spray in the leap. Tell the flower to consider ere it opens to the sunbeam which will consume it! Will you be more petty than they? What is there to consider, when a mighty impulse powerfully constrains us? Is not this moment worth risking the whole life without asking: 'What is to come of it?' Ah, then--then, I have been mistaken in you and it will be better for us to part while there is yet time."

"Oh--enchantress! You are right, I no longer know myself! Part, now? No, it is too late, I am yours, body and soul. Be it so, then, I will barter my life for this moment, and no longer doubt, for I _can_ do nothing else."

Sinking on his knees before her, he buried his face in her lap. Madeleine von Wildenau embraced him with unspeakable tenderness, yet she felt the burden of a heavy responsibility resting upon her, for she now realized--that she was his destiny. She had what she desired, his soul, his heart, his life--nay, had he possessed immortality, he would have sacrificed that, too, for her sake. But now the "God" had become _human_--the choice was made. And, with a secret tear she gazed upon the husk of the beautiful illusion which had vanished.

"What is the matter?" he asked suddenly, raising his head and gazing into her eyes with anxious foreboding. "You have grown cold."

"No, only sad."

"And why?"

"Alas! I do not know! Nothing in this world can be quite perfect." She drew him tenderly toward her. "This is one of those moments in which the highest happiness becomes pain. The fury of the elements could not harm us, but it is a silent, stealing sorrow, which will appease the envy of the gods for unprecedented earthly bliss: Mourning for my Christus."

Freyer uttered a cry of anguish and starting up, covered his face with both hands. "Oh, that you are forced to remind me of it!" He rushed out of the hut.

What did this mean. The beautiful mistress of his heart felt as if she had deceived herself when she believed him to be exclusively her own, as if there was something in the man over which she had no power! Filled with vague terror, she followed him. He stood leaning against the hut as if in a dream and did not lift his eyes. The sound of alarm-bells and the rattle of fire-arms echoed from the valley. The rain had ceased, and columns of flame were now rising high into the air, forming a crimson canopy above the trees in the forest. It was a wild scene, this glowing sea of fire into which tree after tree gradually vanished, the air quivering with the crash of the falling boughs, from which rose a shower of sparks, and a crowd of shrieking birds eddying amid the flames. Joseph Freyer did not heed it. The countess approached almost timidly. "Joseph--have I offended you?"

"No, my child, on the contrary! When I reminded you to-day of the obligations of your rank, you were angry with me, but I thank you for having remembered what I forgot for your sake."

"Well. But, spite of the warning, I was not ashamed of you and did not disown you before the Countess Wildenau! But you, Joseph, are ashamed of me in the presence of Christ!"

He gazed keenly, sorrowfully at her. "I ashamed of you, I deny you in the presence of my Redeemer, who is also yours? I deny you, because I am forced to confess to Him that I love you beyond everything else--nay, perhaps more than I do _Him_? Oh, my dearest, how little you know me! May the day never come which will prove which of us will first deny the other, and may you never be forced to weep the tears which Peter shed when the cock crowed for the third time."

She sank upon his breast. "No, my beloved, that will never be! In the hour when _that_ was possible, you might despise me."

He kissed her forehead tenderly. "I should not do that--any more than Christ despised Peter. You are a child of the world, could treachery to me be charged against you if the strong man, the disciple of Christ, was pardoned for treason to the _holiest_."

"Oh, my angel! It would be treason to the 'holiest,'" said the countess with deep emotion, "if I could deny _you_!"

"Why, for Heaven's sake, Herr Freyer," shouted a voice, and the herdsman came bounding down the mountain side: "Can you stand there so quietly--amid this destruction?" The words died away in the distance.

"The man is right," said the countess in a startled tone, "we are forgetting everything around us. Whoever has hands must help. Go--leave me alone here and follow the herdsman."

"There is no hope of extinguishing the fire, the wood is lost!" replied Freyer, indifferently. "It is fortunate that it is an isolated piece of land, so the flames cannot spread."

"But, Good Heavens, at least try to save what can yet be secured--that is only neighborly duty."

"I shall not leave you, happen what may."

"But I am safe, and perhaps some poor man's all, is burning below."

"What does it matter, in this hour?"

"What does it matter?" the countess indignantly exclaimed. "Joseph, I do not understand you! Have you so little feeling for the distress of your fellow men--and yet play the Christ?"

Freyer gazed at the destruction with a strange expression--his noble figure towered proudly aloft against the gloomy, cloud-veiled sky. Smiling calmly, he held out his hand to the woman he loved and drew her tenderly to his breast: "Do not upbraid me, my dove--the wood was _mine_."

CHAPTER XIII.

BANISHED FROM EDEN.

Silence reigned on the height. The winds had died away, the clouds were scattering swiftly, like an army of ghosts. The embers of the wood below crackled softly. The trunks had all been gnawed to the roots by the fiery tooth of the flames. It was like a churchyard full of clumsy black crosses and grave-stones on which the souls danced to and fro like will-o'-the-wisps.

The countess rested silently on Freyer's breast. When he said: "The wood was mine!" she had thrown herself, unable to utter a word, into his arms--and had since remained clasped in his embrace in silent, perfect peace.

Now the misty veil, growing lighter and more transparent, at last drifted entirely away, and the blue sky once more arched above the earth in a majestic dome. Here and there sunbeams darted through the melting cloud-rack and suddenly, as though the gates of heaven had opened, a double rainbow, radiant in seven-hued majesty, spanned the vault above them in matchless beauty.

Freyer bade the countess look up. And when she perceived the exquisite miracle of the air, with her lover in the midst--encompassed by it, she raised her head and extended her arms like the bride awaiting the heavenly bridegroom. Her eyes rested on him as if dazzled: "Be what you will, man, seraph, God. Shining one, you must be mine! I will bring you down from the height of your cross, though you were nailed above with seven-fold irons. You must be mine. Freyer, hear my vow, hear it, ye surrounding mountains, hear it, sacred soil below, and thou radiant many-hued bow which, with the grace of Aphrodite, dost girdle the universe, risen from chaos. I swear to be your wife, Joseph Freyer, swear it by the God Who has appeared to me, rising from marvel to marvel, since my eyes first beheld you."

Freyer, with bowed head, stood trembling before her. He felt as if a goddess was rolling in her chariot of clouds above him--as if the glimmering prism above were dissolving and flooding him with a sea of glittering sparks. "You--my wife?" he faltered, sobbing, then flung himself face downward before her. "This is too much--too much--"

"You shall be my husband," she murmured, raising him, "let me call you so now until the priest's hand has united us! When, where, and how this can be done--I do not yet know! Let the task of deciding be left to hours devoted to the consideration of earthly things. This is too sacred, it is our spiritual marriage hour, for in it I have pledged myself to you in spirit and in truth! Our church is nature, our witnesses are heaven and earth, our candles the blazing wood below--your little heritage which you sacrificed for me with a smile! And so I give you my bridal kiss--my husband!"

But Freyer did not return the caress. The old conflict again awoke--the conflict with his duty as the representative of Christ.

"Oh, God--is it not the tempter whom Thou didst send to Thy own son on Mt. Hebron that he might show him all the splendors of the world, saying: 'All shall be thine?' Dare I be faithless to the character of Thy chaste son, if Thou dost appoint me to undergo the same trial? Dare I be happy, dare I enjoy, so long as I wear the sacred mask of His sufferings and sacrifice. Will it not then be a terrible fraud, and dare I enter the presence of God with this lie upon my conscience? Will He not tear the crown of thorns from my head and exclaim: 'Juggler--I wish to rise by the pure and saintly--not by deceivers who _feign_ my sufferings and with deceitful art turn the holiest things into a farce. Woe betide me, poor, weak mortal that I am--the trial is too severe. I cannot endure it. Take Thy crown--I place it in Thy hands again--and will personate the Christ no more."

"Joseph!" exclaimed Countess Wildenau, deeply moved. "Must this be? I feel your anguish and am stirred as if we were parting from our dearest possession." She raised her tearful eyes heavenward. "Must the Christ vanish on the very day I plight my troth to him whom I love as Thy image, even as Eve must have loved Adam _for the sake of his likeness to God_. And must I, like Eve, no longer behold Thy face because I have loved the divine in mortal form after the manner of mortals? Unhappy doctrine of the fall of man, which renders the holiest feeling a crime, must we too be driven out of Paradise, must you stand between us and our happy intercourse with the deity? Joseph. Do you believe that the Saviour Who came to bring redemption to the poor human race banished from Eden, will be angry with you if you represent with a happy loving heart the sacrifice by which He saved us?"

"I do not know, my beloved, you may be right. Even the time-honored precepts of our forefathers permit the representative of the Christ to be married. Yet I think differently! The highest demands claim the loftiest service! Whoever is permitted to personate the Saviour should have at that time no other feelings than moved Christ Himself, for _truth_ may not be born of _falsehood_."

He drew the weeping woman to his heart. "You know, sweet wife--to love _you_ and call you _mine_ is a very different thing from the monotonous commonplace matrimonial happiness which our plain village women can bestow. You demand the _whole_ being and every power of the soul is consumed in you."

He clasped her in an embrace so fervent that her breath almost failed, his eyes blazed with the passionate ardor with which the unchained elements seize their prey. "Say what you will, it is on your conscience! I can feel nothing, think of nothing save you! Nay, if they should drive the nails through my own flesh, I should not heed it, in my ardent yearning for you. I have struggled long enough, but you have bewitched me with the sweet promise of becoming my wife--and I am spoiled for personating the Christ. I am yours, take me! Only fly with me to the farthest corner of the world, away from the place where I was permitted to feel myself a part of God, and resigned it for an earthly happiness."

"Come then, my beloved, let us go forth like the pair banished from Eden, and like them take upon us, for love's sake, our heavy human destiny! Let us bear it together, and even in exile love and worship, like faithful cast-off children, the Father who was once so near us!"

"Amen!" said Freyer, clasping the beautiful woman who thus devoted her life to him in a long, silent embrace. The rainbow above their heads gradually paled. The radiant splendor faded. The sun was again concealed by clouds, and the warm azure of the sky was transformed into a chill grey by the rising mists. The mountain peak lay bare and cheerless, the earth was rent and ravaged, nothing was visible save rough rubble and colorless heather. An icy fog rose slowly, gathering more and more densely around them. Nothing could be seen save the sterile soil of the naked ridge on which stood the two lonely outcasts from Eden. The gates of their dream paradise had closed behind them, the spell was broken, and in silent submission they moved down the hard, stony path to reality, the cruel uncertainty of human destiny.

CHAPTER XIV.

PIETA.

Twilight was gathering when the pair reached the valley.

The Passion Theatre loomed like a vast shadow by the roadside, and both, as if moved by the _same_ impulse, turned toward it.

Freyer, drawing a key from his pocket, opened the door leading to the stage. "Shall we take leave of it?" he said.

"Take leave!"

The countess said no more. She knew that the success of the rest of the performances depended solely upon him--and it burdened her soul like a heavy reproach. Yet she did not tell him so, for hers he must be--at any cost.

The strength of her passion swept her on to her robbery of the cross, as the wind bears away the leaf it has stripped from the tree.

They entered the property room. There stood the stake, there lay the scourges which lacerated the sacred body. The spear that pierced his heart was leaning in a corner.

Madeleine von Wildenau gazed around her with a feeling of dread. Freyer had lighted a lamp. Something close beside it flashed, sending its rays far through the dim space. It was the cup, the communion cup! Freyer touched it with a trembling hand: "Farewell! I shall never offer you to any one again! May all blessings flow from you! Happy the hand which scatters them over the world and my beloved Ammergau."

He kissed the brim of the goblet, and a tear fell into it, but it glittered with the same unshadowed radiance. Freyer turned away, and his eyes wandered over the other beloved trophies.

There lay the reed sceptre broken on the floor.

The countess shuddered at the sight. A strange melancholy stole over her, and tears filled her eyes.

"My sceptre of reeds--broken--in the dust!" said Freyer, his voice tremulous with an emotion which forced an answering echo in Madeleine von Wildenau's soul. He raised the fragments, gazing at them long and mournfully. "Aye, the sad symbol speaks the truth--my strength is broken, my sovereignty vanished."

A terrible dread overpowered the countess and she fondly clasped the man she loved, as a princess might press to her heart her dethroned husband, grieving amid the ruins of his power. "You will still remain king in my heart!" she said, consolingly, amid her tears.

"You must now be everything to me, my loved one. In you is my Heaven, my justification in the presence of God. Hold me closely, firmly, for you must lift me in your arms out of this constant torture by the redeeming power of love." He rested his head wearily on hers, and she gladly supported the precious burden. She felt at that moment that she had the power to lift him from Hades, that the love in her heart was strong enough to win Heaven for him and herself.

"Womanly nature is drawing us together!" She clung to him, so absorbed in blissful melancholy that his soul thrilled with an emotion never experienced before. Their lips now met in a kiss as pure as if all earthly things were at an end and their rising souls were greeting each other in a loftier sphere.

"That was an angel's kiss!" said Freyer with a sigh, while the air around the stake seemed to quiver with the rustling of angels' wings, the chains which bound him to it for the scourging to clank as though some invisible hand had flung one end around the feet of the fugitives, to bind them forever to the place of the cross.

"Come, I have one more thing to do." He took the lamp from the table and went into the dressing-room.

There hung the raiment in which a God revealed Himself to mortal eyes--the ample garments stirred mysteriously in the draught from the open door. A glimmering white figure seemed to be soaring upward in one corner--it was the Resurrection robe. Inflated by the wind, it floated with a ghost-like movement, while the man divested of his divinity stood with clasped hands and drooping head--to say farewell.

When a mortal strips off his earthly husk he knows that he will exchange it for a brighter one! _Here_ a mortal was stripping off his robe of light and returning to the oppressive form of human imperfection. This, too, was a death agony.

The countess clung to him tenderly. "Have you forgotten me?"

He threw his arm around her. "Why, sweet one?"

"I mean," she said, with childlike grace, "that if you thought of _me_, you could not be so sad."

"My child, I forget you at the moment I am resigning Heaven for your sake. You do not ask that seriously. As for the pain, let me endure it--for if I could do this with a _light_ heart, would the sacrifice be worthy of you? By the anguish it costs me you must measure the greatness of my love, if you can."

"I can, for even while I rest upon your heart, while my lips eagerly inhale your breath, I pine with longing for your lost divinity."

"And no longer love me as you did when I was the Christ. Be frank--it will come!"

He pressed his hands upon his breast, while his eyes rested mournfully on the shining robe which seemed to beckon to him from the gloom.

"Oh, what are you saying! You sacrifice for me the greatest possession which man ever resigned for woman; the illusion of deity--and I am to punish you for the renunciation by loving you less? Joseph, what _you_ give me, no king can bestow. Crowns have been sacrificed for a woman's sake, crowns of gold--but never one like this!"

"My wife!" he murmured in sweet, mournful tones, while his dark eyes searched hers till her very soul swooned under the power of the look.

She clasped her hands upon his breast. "Will you grant me one favor?"

"If I can."

"Ah, then, appear to me once more as the Christ. I will go out upon the stage. Throw the sacred robe over you--let me see Him once more, clasp His knees--let me take farewell, an eternal farewell of the departing One."

"My child, that would be a sin! Are you again forgetting what you yourself perceived this morning with prescient grief--that I am a man? Dare I continue the sacred character outside of the play? That would be working wrong under the mask of my Saviour."

"No, it would be no wrong to satisfy the longing for His face. I will not touch you, only once more, for the last time show my wondering eyes the sublime figure and let the soul pour forth all the anguish of parting to the vanishing God."

"My wife, where is your error carrying you! Did the God-Man I personated vanish because I stripped off His mask? Poor wife, the anguish which now masters you is remorse for having in your sweet womanly weakness destroyed the pious illusion and never rested until you made the imaginary God a man. Oh, Magdalena, how far you still are from the goal gained by your predecessor. Come, I will satisfy your longing; I will lead you where you will perceive that He is everywhere, if we really seek Him, that the form alone is perishable. He is imperishable." Then gently raising her, he tenderly repeated: "Come. Trust me and follow me." Casting one more sorrowful glance around him, he took from the table the crown of thorns, extinguished the lamp, and with a steady arm guided the weeping woman through the darkness. Outside of the building the stars were shining brightly, the road was distinctly visible. The countess unresistingly accompanied him. He turned toward the village and they walked swiftly through the silent streets. At last the church rose, dark and solemn, before them. He led her in. A holy-water font stood at the entrance, and, pausing, he sprinkled her with the water. Then they entered. The church was dark. No light illumined it save the trembling rays of the ever-burning lamp and two candles flickering low in their sockets before an image of the Madonna in a remote corner. They were obliged to grope their way forward slowly amid the wavering shadows. At the left of the entrance stood a "Pieta." It was a group almost life-size, carved from wood. The crucified Saviour in the Madonna's lap. Mary Magdalene was supporting his left hand, raising it slightly, while John stood at the Saviour's feet. The whole had been created by an artist's hand with touching realism. The expression of anguish in the Saviour's face was very affecting. Before the group stood a priedieu on which lay several withered wreaths.

The countess' heart quivered; he was leading her there! So this was to be the compensation for the living image? Mere dead wood?

Freyer drew her gently down upon the priedieu. "Here, my child, learn to seek him here, and when you have once found Him, you will never lose Him more. Lay your hands devoutly on the apparently lifeless breast and you will feel the heart within throbbing, as in mine--only try."

"Alas, I cannot, it will be a falsehood if I do."

"What, _that_ a falsehood, and I--was _I_ the Christ?"

"I could imagine it!"

"Because I breathed? Ah, the breath of the deity can swell more than a human breast, sister, and you will hear it! Collect your thoughts--and pray!"

His whisper grew fainter, the silence about her more solemn. "I cannot pray; I never have prayed," she lamented, "and surely not to lifeless wood."

"Only try--for my sake," he urged gently, as if addressing a restless child, which ought to go to sleep and will not.

"Yes; but stay with me," she pleaded like a child, clinging to his arm.

"I will stay," he said, kneeling by her side.

"Teach me to pray as you do," she entreated, raising her delicate hands to him. He clasped them in his, and she felt as if the world could do her no further harm, that her soul, her life, lay in his firm hands.

The warmth emanating from him became in her a devout fervor. The pulses of ardent piety throbbing in his finger-tips seemed to communicate a wave-like motion to the surrounding air, which imparted to everything which hitherto had been dead and rigid, an undulating movement that lent it a faint, vibrating life.

Something stirred, breathed, murmured before and above her. There was a rustling among the withered leaves of the garlands at the foot of the Pieta, invisible feet glided through the church and ascended the steps of the high altar; high up the vaulted dome rose a murmur which wandered to the folds of the funeral banner, hanging above, passing from pillar to pillar, from arch to arch, in ghostly echoes which the listening ear heard with secret terror, the language of the silence. And the burning eyes beheld the motionless forms begin to stir. The contours of the figures slowly changed in the uncertain, flickering light, the shadows glided and swung to and fro. The Saviour's lips opened, then slowly closed, the kneeling woman touched the rigid limbs and laid her fevered fingers on the wounded breast. The other hand rested in Freyer's. A chain was thus formed between the three, which thrilled and warmed the wood with the circulating stream of the hot blood. It was no longer a foreign substance--it was the heart, the poor pierced heart of their beloved, divine friend. It throbbed, suffered, bled. More and more distinctly the chest rose and fell with the regular breathing. It was the creative breath of the deity, which works in the conscious and unconscious object, animating even soulless matter. The arm supported by Mary Magdalene swayed to and fro, the fingers of the hand moved gently. The poor pierced hand--it seemed as if it were trying to move toward the countess, as if it were pleading, "Cool my pain."

Urged by an inexplicable impulse, the countess warmed the stiff, slender fingers in her own. She fancied that it was giving relief. Higher and higher swelled the tide of feeling in her heart until it overflowed--and--she knew not how, she had risen and pressed a kiss upon the wounds in the poor little hand, a kiss of the sweetest, most sacred piety. She felt as if she were standing by a beloved corpse whose mute lips we seek, though they no longer feel.

She could not help it, and bending down again the rosy lips of the young widow rested on the pale half-parted ones of the statue. But the lips breathed, a cool, pure breath issued from them, and the rigid form grew more pliant beneath the sorrowful caress, as though it felt the reconciling pain of the penitent human soul. But the divine fire which was to purify this soul, blazed far beyond its boundaries in this first ardor. Overpowered by a wild fervor, she flung herself on her knees and adjured the God whose breath she had drunk in that kiss, to hear her. The friend praying at her side was forgotten, the world had vanished, every law of reason was annihilated, all knowledge was out of her mind--every hard-won conquest of human empiricism was effaced. From the heights and from the depths it came with rustling pinions, bearing the soul away on the flood-tide of mercy. The _miracle_ was approaching--in unimagined majesty.

Thousands of years vanished, eternity dawned in that _one_ moment. All that was and is, _was_ not and _is_ not--past, present, and future, were blended and melted into a single breath beyond the boundaries of the natural life.

"If it is Thou, if Thou dost live, look at me," she had cried with ardent aspiration, and, lo!--was it shadow or imagination?--the eyes opened and two large dark pupils were fixed upon her, then the lids closed for an instant to open again The countess gazed more and more earnestly; it was distinct, unmistakable. A shudder ran through her veins as, in a burning fever, the limbs tremble with a sudden chill. She tried to meet the look, but spite of the tension in every nerve, the effort was futile. It was too overpowering; it was the gaze of a God. Dread and rapture were contending for the mastery. Doubtless she said to herself, "It is not _outside_ of you, but within you." Once more she ventured to glance at the mysterious apparition, but the eyes were fixed steadily upon her. Terror overpowered her. The chord of the possible snapped and she sank half senseless on the steps of the altar, while the miracle closed its golden wings above her.

CHAPTER XV.

THE CROWING OF THE COCK.

A loud step roused the rapt enthusiast from her visions. The sacristan was passing through the church, extinguishing the candles which, meanwhile, had burned down in their sockets before the Madonna in the distant corner.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you," he said; "but I wanted to close the church. There is plenty of time, however. Shall I leave a candle? It will be too dark; the lamp alone does not give sufficient light."

"I thank you," replied Freyer, more thoughtful than the countess, who, unable to control herself, remained on her knees with her face buried in her hands.

"I will lock the church when we leave it and bring you the key," Freyer added, and the sacristan was satisfied. The imperious high priest withdrew silently and modestly, that he might not disturb the prayers of the man whom he sentenced to death every week with such fury.

The lovers were again alone, but the door remained open. The shrill crowing of a cock suddenly echoed through the stillness from the yard of the neighboring parsonage. The countess started up. Her eyes were painfully dazzled by the light of the wax candle so close at hand. Before her, the face smeared with shining varnish, lay the wooden Christ, hard and cold in its carven bareness and rigidity. The pale-blue painted eyes gazed with the traditional mournfulness upon the ground.

"What startled you just now?" asked Freyer.

"I don't know whether it was a miracle or a shadow, which created the illusion, but I would have sworn that the statue moved its lids and looked at me."

"Be it what it might, it was still a miracle," said Freyer. "If the finger of God can paint the Saviour's eyes to the excited vision from the wave of blood set in motion by the pulsation of our hearts, or from the shadow cast by a smoking candle, is that any less wonderful than if the stiff lids had really moved?"

The countess breathed a long sigh of relief; "Yes, you are right. That is the power which, as you say, can do more than swell a human breast, it can make, for the yearning soul, a heart throb even in a Christ carved from wood. Even if what I have just experienced could have been done by lifeless matter, the power which brought us together was divine, and no one living could have resisted it. Lay aside your crown of thorns trustfully and without remorse, you have accomplished your mission, you have saved the soul for which God destined you, it was His will, and who among us could resist Him?"

Freyer raised the crown of thorns, which he still held, to his lips, kissed it, and laid it at the feet of the Pieta: "Lord, Thy will be done, in so far as it is Thy will. And if it is not, forgive the error."

"It is no error, I understand God's purpose better. He has sent me His image in you and given it to me in an attainable human form, that I may learn through it to do my duty to the prototype. To the feeble power of the novice in faith. He graciously adds an earthly guide. Oh, He is good and merciful!"

She raised Freyer from his knees: "Come, thou God-given one, that I may fulfil the sweetest duty ever imposed on any mortal, that of loving you and making you happy. God and His holy will be praised."

"And will you no longer grieve for the lost Christ?"

"No, for you were right. He is everywhere!"

"In God's name then, come and obey the impulse of your heart, even though I perish."

"Can you speak so to-day, Joseph?"

"To-day especially. Would you not just now have sworn to the truth of an illusion conjured up by a shadow? And were you not disappointed when the light came and the spell vanished? The time will come when you will see me, as you now do this wooden figure, in the light of commonplace reality, and then the nimbus will vanish and nothing will remain save the dross as here. Then your soul will turn away disenchanted and follow the vanished God to loftier heights."

"Or plunge into the depths," murmured the countess.

"I should not fear that, for then my mission would have been vain! No, my child, if I did not believe that I was appointed to save you I should have no excuse in my own eyes for what I am doing. But come, it is late, we must return home or our absence will occasion comment."

* * * * *

It was half-past nine o'clock. An elderly gentleman of distinguished aristocratic bearing was pacing impatiently to and fro.

The two sisters were standing helplessly in the doorway, deeply oppressed by the burden of so haughty a guest.

"If she would only come!" Sephi lamented in the utmost anxiety, for she dreaded the father for the daughter's sake. It was the old Prince von Prankenberg, and his bearing augured nothing good.

It seemed to these loyal souls a democratic impertinence on the part of fate that _such_ a gentleman should be kept waiting, and the prince regarded it in precisely the same light. The good creatures would willingly have lent wings to the daughter for whom _such_ a father was waiting. But what did it avail that the noble lord constantly quickened his pace as he walked to and fro, time and his unsuspicious daughter did not do the same. Prince Prankenberg had reached Ammergau at noon that day and waited in vain for the countess. On his arrival he had found the whole village in an uproar over the conflagration in the woods, and the countess and Herr Freyer, who had been seen walking together in that direction, were missing. At last the herder reported that they had been in the mountain pasture with him, and Ludwig Gross, on his return from directing the firemen in the futile effort to extinguish the flames, set off to inform the Countess Wildenau of her father's arrival. He had evidently failed to find her, for he ought to have returned long before. So the faithful women had been on coals of fire ever since. Andreas Gross had gone to the village to look for the absent ones, as if that could be of any service! Josepha was gazing sullenly through the window-panes at the prince, who had treated her as scornfully as if she were a common maid-servant, when she offered to show him the way to the countess' room, and answered: "People can't stay in such a hole!" Meanwhile night had closed in.

At last, coming from exactly the opposite direction, a couple approached whose appearance attracted the nobleman's attention. A female figure, bare-headed, with dishevelled hair and tattered, disordered garments, leaning apparently almost fainting on the arm of a tall, bearded man in a peasant's jacket. Could it--no, it was impossible, that _could_ not be his daughter.

The unsuspecting pair came nearer. The lady, evidently exhausted, was really almost carried by her companion. It was too dark for the prince to see distinctly, but her head seemed to be resting on the peasant's breast. An interesting pair of lovers! But they drew nearer, the prince could not believe his eyes, it _was_ his daughter, leaning on a peasant's arm. There was an involuntary cry of horror from both as Countess Wildenau stood face to face with her haughty father. The blood fairly congealed in Madeleine's veins, her cheeks blanched till their pallor glimmered through the gloom! Yet the habit of maintaining social forms did not desert her: "Oh, what a surprise! Good evening, Papa!"

Her soul had retreated to the inmost depths of her being, and she was but a puppet moving and speaking by rule.

Freyer raised his hat in a farewell salute.

"Are you going?" she said with an expressionless glance. "I suppose I cannot ask you to rest a little while? Farewell, Herr Freyer, and many thanks."

How strange! Did it not seem as if a cock crowed?

Freyer bowed silently and walked on, "Adieu!" said the prince without lifting his hat. For an instant he considered whether he could possibly offer his aim to a lady in _such_ attire, but at last resolved to do so--she was his daughter, and this was not exactly the right moment to quarrel with her. So, struggling with his indignation and disgust, he escorted her, holding his arm very far out as though he might be soiled by the contact, through the house into her room. The Gross sisters, with trembling hands, brought in lights and hastily vanished. Madeleine von Wildenau stood in the centre of the room, like an automaton whose machinery had run down. The prince took a candle from the table and threw its light full upon her face. "Pardon me, I must ascertain whether this lady, who looks as if she had just jumped out of a gipsy-cart, is really my daughter? Yes, it is actually she!" he exclaimed in a tone intended to be humorous, but which was merely brutal. "So I find the Countess Wildenau in _this_ guise--ragged, worn, with neither hat nor gloves, wandering about with peasants! It is incredible!"

The countess sank into a chair without a word. Her father's large, stern features were flushed with a wrath which he could scarcely control.

"Have you gone out of fashion so completely that you must seek your society in such circles as these, _ma fille_? Could no cavalier be found to escort the Countess Wildenau that she must strike up an intimacy with one of the comedians in the Passion Play?"

"An intimacy? Papa, this is an insult!" exclaimed the countess angrily, for though it was true, she felt that on his lips and in _his_ meaning it was such! Again a cock crowed at this unwonted hour.

"Well _ma chere_, when a lady is caught half embraced by such a man, the inference is inevitable."

"Dear me, I was so exhausted that I could scarcely stand," replied the countess, softly, as if the cocks might hear: "We were caught by the storm and the man was obliged to support me. I should think, however, that the Countess Wildenau's position was too high for such suspicions."

"Well, well, I heard in Munich certain rumors about your long stay here which accorded admirably with the romantic personage who has just left you. My imaginative daughter always had strange fancies, and as you seem able to endure the peasant odor--I am somewhat more sensitive to it ..."

"Papa!" cried the countess, frantic with shame. "I beg you not to speak in that way of people whom I esteem."

"Aha!" said the prince with a short laugh, "Your anger speaks plainly enough. I will make no further allusion to these delicate relations."

The countess remained silent a moment, struggling with her emotions. Should she confess all--should she betray the mystery of the "God in man?" Reveal it to this frivolous, prosaic man from whose mockery, even in her childhood, she had carefully concealed every nobler feeling--disclose to him her most sacred possession, the miracle of her life? No, it would be desecration. "I _have_ no delicate relations! I scarcely know these people--I am interested in this Freyer as the representative of the Christ--he is nothing more to me."

The cede crowed for the third time.

"What was that? I am continually hearing cocks crow to-night. Did you hear nothing?" asked the countess.

"Not the slightest sound! Have you hallucinations?" asked the prince: "The cocks are all asleep at this hour."

She knew it--the sound was but the echo of her own conscience. She thought of the words Freyer had uttered that day upon the mountain, and his large eyes gazed mournfully, yet forgivingly at her. Now she knew why Peter was pardoned! He would not suffer the God in whom he could not force men to believe to be profaned--so he concealed Him in his heart. He knew that the bond which united him to Christ and the work which he was appointed to do for Him was greater than the cheap martyrdom of an acknowledgment of Him to the dull ears of a handful of men and maid-servants! It was no lie when he said: "I know not the man"--for he really did _not_ know the Christ whom _they_ meant. He was denying--not _Christ_, but the _criminal_, whom they believed Him to be. It was the same with the countess. She was not ashamed of the man she loved, only of the person her father saw in him and, as she could not explain to the prince what Joseph Freyer was to her, she denied him entirely. But even as Peter mourned as a heavy sin the brief moment in which he faithlessly separated from his beloved Master, she, too, now felt a keen pang, as though a wound was bleeding in her heart, and tears streamed from her eyes.

"You are nervous, _ma fille_! It isn't worth while. Tears for the sake of that worthy villager?" said the prince, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "Listen, _ma chere_, I believe it would be better for you to marry."

"Papa!" exclaimed the countess indignantly.

The prince laughed: "No offence, when women like you begin to be sentimental--it is time for them to marry! You were widowed too young--it was a misfortune for you."

"A misfortune? May God forgive you the sneer and me the words--it was a misfortune that Wildenau lived so long--nay more: that I ever became his wife, and you, Papa, ought never to remind me of it."

"Why not?"

"Because I might forget that you _are_ my father--as _you_ forget it when you sold me to that greybeard?"

"Sold? What an expression, _chere enfant_! Is this the result of your study of peasant life here? I congratulate you on the enlargement of your vocabulary. This is the gratitude of a daughter for whom the most brilliant match in the whole circle of aristocratic families was selected."

"And her soul sold in exchange," the countess interrupted; "for that my moral nature was not utterly destroyed is no credit of yours."

The prince smiled with an air of calm superiority: "Capital! Moral nature destroyed! When a girl is wedded to one of the oldest members of the German nobility and made the possession of a yearly income of half a million! That is what she calls moral destruction and an outrageous deed, of which the inhuman father must not remind his daughter without forfeiting his _paternal rights_. It is positively delicious!" He laughed and drew out his cigar case: "You see, _ma fille_--I understand a jest. Will you be annoyed if I smoke a Havana in this rural bed-room?"

"As you please!" replied the countess, who had now regained her former cold composure, holding the candle to him. The prince scanned her features with the searching gaze of a connoisseur as she thus stood before him illumined by the ruddy glow. "You have lost a little of your freshness, my child, but you are still beautiful--still charming. I admit that Wildenau was rather too old for a poetic nature like yours--but there is still time to compensate for it. When were you born? A father ought not to ask his daughter's age--but the Almanach de Gotha tells the story. You must be now--stop! You were not quite seventeen when you married Wildenau--you were married nine years--you have been a widow two--that makes you twenty-eight. There is still time, but--not much to lose! I am saying this to you in a mother's place, my child"--he added, with a repulsive affectation of tenderness. His daughter made no reply.

"It is true, you will lose your income if you give up the name of Wildenau--as the will reads 'exchange it for another.' This somewhat restricts your choice, for you can resign this colossal dower only in favor of a match which can partially supply your loss."

The countess turned deadly pale. "That is the curse Wildenau hurled upon me from his grave. It was not enough that I was miserable during his life, no--I must not be happy even after his death."

"Why--who has told you so? You have your choice among any of the handsome and wealthy men who can offer you an equivalent for all that you resign. Prince von Metten-Barnheim, for instance! He is a visionary, it is true--"

"Prosaic Prince Emil a visionary!" said the countess, laughing bitterly.

"Well, I think that a man who surrounds himself so much with plebeian society, scholars and authors, might properly be termed a visionary! When his father dies, the luckless country will be ruled by loud-voiced professors. What does that matter! He'll suit you all the better, as you are half a scholar yourself. True, it might be said that the Barnheim family is of inferior rank to ours--the Prankenbergs are an older race and from the days of Charlemagne have not made a single _mesalliance_, while the Barnheim genealogical tree shows several gaps--which explains their liberal tendencies. Such things always betray themselves. Yet on the other hand, they are reigning dukes, and we a decaying race--so it is tolerably equal. You are interested in him--so decide at last and marry him, then you will be a happy woman and the curse of the will can have no power."

"Indeed?" cried the countess, trembling with excitement. "But suppose that I loved another, a poor man, whom I could not wed unless I possessed some property of my own, however small, and the will made me a _beggar_ the moment I gave him my hand--what then? Should I not have a right to hate the jealous despot and the man who sacrificed me to his selfish interests--even though he was my own father?" A glance of the keenest reproach fell upon the prince.

He was startled by this outburst of passion, hitherto unknown in his experience of this apathetic woman. He could make no use of her present mood. Biting off a leaf from his cigar, he blew it into the air with a graceful movement of the lips. Some change had taken place in Madeleine, that was evident! If, after all, she should commit some folly--make a love-match? But with whom? Again the scene he had witnessed that evening rose before his mind! She had let her head rest on the shoulder of a common peasant--that could not be denied, he had _seen_ it with his own eyes. Did such a delusion really exist? A woman of her temperament was incomprehensible--she would be quite capable, in a moment of enthusiasm, of throwing her whole splendid fortune away and giving society an unparalleled spectacle. Who could tell what ideas such a "lunatic" might take into her head. And yet--who could prevent it? No one had any power over her--least of all he himself, who could not even threaten her with disinheritance, since it was long since he had possessed anything he could call his own. An old gambler, perpetually struggling with debt, who had come that day, that very day, to--nay, he was reluctant to confess it to himself. And he had already irritated his daughter, his last refuge, the only support which still kept his head above water, more than was wise or prudent--he dared not venture farther.

He had the suppressed brutality of all violent natures which cannot have their own way, are not masters of their passions and their circumstances, and hence are constantly placed in the false position of being compelled to ask the aid of others!

After having busied himself a sufficiently long time with his cigar, he said in a soothing and--for so imperious a man--repulsively submissive tone: "Well, _ma fille_, there is an expedient for that case also. If you loved a man who was too poor to maintain an establishment suitable for you--you might do the one thing without forfeiting the other--Wildenau's will mentions only _a change of name_: you might marry secretly--keep his name and with it his property."

"Papa!" exclaimed the countess--a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, but her eyes were fixed with intense anxiety upon the speaker--"I could not expect that from a husband whom I esteemed and loved."

"Why not? If he could offer you no maintenance, he could not ask you to sacrifice yours! Surely it would be enough if you gave him yourself."

"If he would accept me under such conditions,"' she answered, thoughtfully.

"Aha--we are on the right track!" the prince reflected, watching her keenly. "As soon as he perceived that there was no other possibility of making you his--certainly! A woman like you can persuade a man to do anything. I don't wish to be indiscreet, but, _ma fille_--I fear that you have made a choice of which you cannot help being ashamed. Could you think of forming such an alliance except in secret. If, that is, you _must_ wed? What would the world say when rumor whispered: 'Countess Wildenau has sunk so low that she'--I dare not utter the word, from the fear of offending you."

The countess sat with downcast eyes.

The world--! It suddenly stood before her with its mocking faces. Should she expose her sacred love to its derision? Should she force the noble simple-mannered man who was the salvation of her soul to play a ridiculous part in the eyes of society, as the husband of the Countess Wildenau? Her father was right--though from very different motives. Could this secret which was too beautiful, too holy, to be confided to her own father--endure the contact of the world?

"But how could a secret marriage be arranged?" she asked, with feigned indifference.

Prince von Prankenberg was startled by the earnestness of the question. Had matters gone so far? Caution was requisite here. Energetic opposition could only produce the opposite result, perhaps a public scandal. He reflected a moment while apparently toiling to puff rings of smoke into the air, as if the world contained no task more important. His daughter's eyes rested on him with suspicious keenness. At last he seemed to have formed his plan.

"A secret marriage? Why, that is an easy matter for a woman of your wealth and independent position! Is the person in question a Catholic?"

Madeleine silently nodded assent.

"Well--then the matter is perfectly simple. Follow the example of Manzoni's _promessi sposi_, with whom we are sufficiently tormented while studying Italian. Go with your chosen husband to the pastor and declare before him, in the presence of two witnesses, who can easily be found among your faithful servants, that you take each other in marriage. According to the rite of the Catholic church, it is sufficient to constitute a valid marriage, if both parties make this declaration, even without the marriage ceremonial, in the presence of an ordained priest--your ordained priest in this case would be our old pastor at Prankenberg. You can play the farce best there. You will thus need no papers, no special license, which might betray you, and if you manage cleverly you will succeed in persuading the decrepit old man not to enter the marriage in the church register. Then let any one come and say that you are married! There will be absolutely no proof--and when the old pastor dies the matter will go down to the grave with him! You will choose witnesses on whom you can depend. What risk can there be?"

"Father! But will that be a marriage?" cried the countess in horror.

"Not according to _our_ ideas," said the prince, laconically: "But the point is merely that _he_ shall consider himself married, and that _he_ shall be bound--not you?"

"Father--I will not play such a farce!" She turned away with loathing.

"If you are in earnest--there will be no farce, _ma chere_! It will rest entirely with you whether you regard yourself as married or not. In the former case you will have the pleasant consciousness of a moral act without its troublesome consequences--can go on a journey after the pseudo wedding, roam through foreign lands with a reliable maid, and then return perhaps with one or two 'adopted' children, whom, as a philanthropist, you will educate and no one can discover anything. The anonymous husband may be installed by the Countess Wildenau under some title on one of her distant estates, and the marriage will be as happy as any--only less prosaic! But you will thus spare yourself an endless scandal in the eyes of society, keep your pastoral dream, and yet remain the wealthy and powerful Countess Wildenau. Is not that more sensible than in Heaven knows what rhapsody to sacrifice honor, position, wealth, and--your old father?"

"My father?" asked the countess, who had struggled with the most contradictory emotions while listening to the words of the prince.

"Why yes"--he busied himself again with his cigar, which he was now obliged to exchange for another, "You know, _chere enfant_, the duties of our position impose claims upon families of princely rank, which, unfortunately, my finances no longer allow me to meet. I--h'm--I find myself compelled--unpleasant as it is--to appeal to my daughter's kindness--may I use one of these soap dishes as an ash-receiver? So I have come to ask whether, for the sake of our ancient name--I expect no childish sentimentality--whether you could help me with an additional sum of some fifty thousand marks annually, and ninety thousand to be paid at once--otherwise nothing is left for me--a light, please--_merci_--except to put a bullet through my head!" He paused to light the fresh cigar. The countess clasped her hands in terror.

"Good Heavens, Papa! Are the sums Wildenau gave you already exhausted?"

"What do you mean--can a Prince Prankenberg live on an income of fifty thousand marks? If I had not been so economical, and we did not live in the quiet German style, I could not have managed to make such a trifle hold out so _long_!"

"A trifle! Then I was sold so cheaply?" cried Madeleine Wildenau with passionate emotion. "I have not even, in return for my wasted life, the consciousness of having saved my father? Yes, yes, if this is true--I am no longer free to choose! I shall remain to the end of my days the slave of my dead husband, and must steal the happiness for which I long like forbidden fruit. You have chosen the moment for this communication well--it must be true! You have destroyed the first blossom of my life, and now, when it would fain put forth one last bud, you blight that, too."

The prince rose. "I regret having caused you any embarrassment by my affairs. As I said, you are your own mistress. If I did not put a bullet through my head long ago, it was purely out of consideration for you, that the world might not say: 'Prince von Prankenberg shot himself on account of financial embarrassment because his wealthy daughter would not aid him!' I wished to save you this scandal--that is why I gave you the choice of helping me if you preferred to do so."

The countess shuddered. "You know that such threats are not needed! If I wept, it was not for the sake of the paltry money, but all the unfortunate circumstances. How can I ever be happy, even in a secret marriage, if I am constantly compelled to dread discovery for my father's sake? If it were for a father impoverished by misfortune, the tears shed for my sacrifice of happiness would be worthy of execration--but, Papa, to be compelled to sacrifice the holiest feeling that ever thrilled a human heart for gambling, race-courses, and the women of doubtful reputation who consume your property--that is hard indeed!"

"Spare your words, _ma fille_, I am not disposed to purchase your help at the cost of a lecture. Either you will relieve me from my embarrassments without reproaches, or you will be the daughter of a suicide--what is the use of all this philosophizing? A lofty unsullied name is a costly article! Make your choice. _I_ for my own part set little value on life. I am old, a victim to the gout, have grown too stiff to ride or enjoy sport of any kind, have lost my luck with women--there is nothing left but gambling. If I must give that up, too, then _rogue la galere_! In such a case, there are but two paths--_corriger la fortune_--or die. But a Prankenberg would rather die &an to take the former."

"Father! What are you saying! Alas, that matters have gone so far! Woe betide a society that dismisses an old man from its round of pleasures so bankrupt in every object, every dignity, that no alternative remains save suicide or cheating at the gaming-table--unless he happens, by chance, to have a wealthy daughter!"

"My beloved child!" said the prince, who now found it advisable to adopt a tone of pathos.

"Pray, say no more, Father. You have never troubled yourself about your daughter, have never been a father to me--if you had, you would not now stand before me so miserable, so poor in happiness. This is past change. Alas, that I cannot love and respect my father as I ought--that I cannot do what I am about to do more gladly. Yet I am none the less ready to fulfill my duties towards you. So far as lies in my power, I will afford you the possibility of continuing your pitiful life of shams, and leave it to your discretion how far you draw upon my income. It is fortunate that you came in time--in a few days it might have been too late. I see now that I must not give up my large income so long as my father needs the money. My dreams of a late, but pure happiness are shattered! You will understand that one needs time to recover from such a blow and pardon my painful excitement."

She rose, with pallid face and trembling limbs: "I will place the papers necessary to raise the money in your hands early to-morrow morning, and you will forget this painful scene sooner than I."

"You have paid me few compliments--but I shall bear no malice--you are nervous to-day, my fair daughter. And even if you do not bestow your aid in the most generous way, nevertheless you help me. Let me kiss your liberal hand! Ah, it is exactly like your mother's. When I think that those slender, delicate fingers have been laid in the coarse fist of Heaven knows what plebeian, I think great credit is due me--"

"Do not go on!" interrupted the countess, imperiously. "I think I have done my duty, Papa--but the measure is full, and I earnestly entreat you to let me rest to-day."

"It is the fate of fathers to let their daughters rule them," replied the prince in a jesting tone. "Well, it is better to be ill-treated by a daughter than by a sweetheart. You see I, too, have some moral impulses, since I have been in your strict society. May the father whom you judge so harshly be permitted to kiss your forehead?"

The countess silently submitted--but a shudder ran through her frame as if the touch had defiled her. She felt that it was the Judas kiss of the world, not the caress of a father.

The prince wiped his mouth with a sensation of secret disgust. "Who knows what lips have touched that brow today?" He dared not think of it, or it would make him ill.

"_Ma chere_, however deeply I am indebted to you, I must assert my paternal rights a few minutes. You have said so many bitter things, whose justice I will not deny, that you will permit me to utter a few truthful words also." Fixing his eyes upon her with a stern, cold gaze, he said in a low tone, placing a marked emphasis on every word: "We have carried matters very far--you and I--the last of the ancient Prankenberg race! A pretty pair! the father a bankrupt, and the daughter--on the eve of marrying a peasant."

Madeleine von Wildenau, deadly pale, stood leaning with compressed lips on the back of her armchair.

The prince laid his hand on her shoulder. "We may both say that to-day _each_ has saved the _other_! This is my reparation for the humiliating role fate has forced upon me in your presence. Am I not right? Good-night, my queenly daughter--and I hope you bear me no ill-will."

CHAPTER XVI.

PRISONED.

The prince had left the room, and she heard him walk through the work-shop. Silence fell upon the house and the street. The tortured woman, utterly exhausted, sank upon her bed--her feet would support her no longer. But she could get no rest; an indescribable grief filled her heart. Everything had happened precisely as Freyer had predicted. Before the cock crowed, she had thrice betrayed him, betrayed him in the very hour when she had sworn fidelity. At the first step she was to take on the road of life with the man she loved, at the first glance from the basilisk eyes of conventional prejudice, she shrank back like a coward and could not make up her mind to acknowledge him. This was her purification, this the effect of a feeling which, as she believed, had power to conquer the world? Everything was false--she despaired of all things--of her future, of herself, of the power of Christianity, which she, like all new converts, expected would have the might to transform sinners into saints in a single moment. One thing alone remained unchanged, _one_ image only was untouched by any tinge of baseness amid the turmoil of emotions seething in her heart--Freyer. He alone could save her--she must go to him. Springing from her bed she hurried into the work-shop. "Where is your son?" she asked Andreas Gross, who was just preparing to retire.

"I suppose he is in his room, Countess."

"Bring him to me at once."

"Certainly, Countess."

"Shall I undress Your Highness?" asked Josepha, who was still waiting for her orders.

Madeleine von Wildenau's eyes rested on the girl with a searching expression, as if she saw her now for the first time. Was she faithful--as faithful as a maid must be to make it possible to carry out the plan her father had suggested? Josepha gazed steadily into the countess' eyes, her frank face expressed nothing but innocent wonder at so long a scrutiny. "Yes--you are faithful," said the countess at last--"are you not?"

"Certainly, Countess," replied the girl, evidently surprised that she needed to give the assurance.

"You know what unhappiness means?"

"I think so!" said Josepha, with bitter emphasis.

"Then you would aid the unhappy so far as you were able?"

"It would depend upon who it was," answered Josepha, brusquely, but the rudeness pleased the countess; it was a proof of character, and character is a guarantee of trustworthiness. "If it were I, Josepha, could I depend upon you in _any_ situation?"

"Certainly!" the girl answered simply--"I live only for you--otherwise I would far rather be under the sod. What have I to live for except you?"

"I believe, Josepha, that I now know the reason Providence sent me to you!" murmured her mistress, lost in thought.

Ludwig Gross entered. "Did you wish to see me?"

Madeleine von Wildenau silently took his hand and drew him into her room.

"Oh, Ludwig, what things I have been compelled to hear--what sins I have committed--what suffering I have endured!" She laid her arm on the shoulder of the faithful friend, like a child pleading for aid. "What time is it, Ludwig?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I was asleep when my father called me. I wandered about looking for you and Freyer until about an hour ago. Then weariness overpowered me." He drew out his watch. "It is half past ten."

"Take me to Freyer, Ludwig. I must see him this very day. Oh, my friend! let me wash myself clean in your soul, for I feel as if the turbid surges of the world had soiled me with their mire."

Ludwig Gross passed his arm lightly about her shoulders as if to protect her from the unclean element. "Come," he said soothingly, "I will take you to Freyer. Or would you prefer to have me bring him here?"

"No, he would not come now. I must go to him, for I have done something for which I must atone--there can be no delay."

Ludwig hurriedly wrapped her in a warm shawl. "You will be ill from this continual excitement," he said anxiously, but without trying to dissuade her. "Take my arm, you are tottering."

They left the house before the eyes of the astonished Gross family. "She is a very singular woman," said Sephi, shaking her head. "She gives herself no rest night or day."

It was only five days since the evening that Madeleine von Wildenau had walked, as now, through the sleeping village, and how much she had experienced.

She had found the God whom she was seeking--she had gazed into his eyes, she had recognized divine, eternal love, and had perceived that she was not worthy of it. So she moved proudly, yet humbly on, leaning upon the arm of her friend, to the street where a thrill of reverence had stirred her whole being when Andreas Gross said, "That is the way to the dwelling of the Christ."

The house stood across the end of the street. This time no moonbeams lighted the way. The damp branches of the trees rustled mournfully above them in the darkness. Only a single window on the ground floor of Freyer's house was lighted, and the wavering rays marked the way for the pair. They reached it and looked in. Freyer was sitting on a wooden stool by the table, his head resting on his hand, absorbed in sorrowful thought. A book lay before him, which he had perhaps intended to read, but evidently had not done so, for he was gazing wearily into vacancy.

Madeleine von Wildenau stepped softly in through the unfastened door. Ludwig Gross waited for her outside. As she opened the door of the room Freyer looked up in astonishment "You?" he said, and his eyes rested full upon her with a questioning gaze--but he rose with dignity, instead of rushing to meet her, as he would formerly have greeted the woman he loved, had she suddenly appeared before him.

"Countess--what does this visit mean--at this hour?" he asked, mournfully, offering her a chair. "Did you come alone?"

"Ludwig brought me and is waiting outside for me--I have only a few words to say."

"But it will not do to leave our friend standing outside. You will allow me to call him in?"

"Do so, you will then have the satisfaction of having a witness of my humiliation," said the countess, quietly.

"Pardon me, I did not think of that interpretation!" murmured Freyer, seating himself.

"May I ask your Highness' commands?"

"Joseph--to whom are you speaking?"

"To the Countess Wildenau!"

She knelt beside him: "Joseph! Am I _still_ the Countess Wildenau?"

"Your Highness, pray spare me!" he exclaimed, starting up. "All this can alter nothing. You remain--what you are, and I--what I am! This was deeply graven on my heart to-night, and nothing can efface it." He spoke with neither anger nor reproach--simply like a man who has lost what was dearest to him on earth.

"If that is true, I can certainly do nothing except go again!" she replied, turning toward the door. "But answer for it to God for having thrust me forth unheard."

"Nay, Countess, pray, speak!" said Freyer, kindly. She looked at him so beseechingly that his heart melted with unutterable pain. "Come--and--tell me what weighs upon your heart!" he added in a gentler tone.

"Not until you again call me your dove--or your child."

Tears filled his eyes, "My child--what have you done!"

"That is right--I can speak now! What have I done, Joseph? What you saw; and still worse. I not only treated you coldly and distantly in my father's presence, I afterwards disowned you three times--and I come to tell you so because you alone can and--I know--will forgive me."

Freyer had clasped his hands upon his knee and was gazing into vacancy. Madeleine continued: "You see, I have so lofty an opinion of you, and of your love, that I do not try to justify myself. I will only remind you of the words you yourself said to-day: 'May you never be forced to weep the tears which Peter shed when the cock crowed for the third time.' I will recall what must have induced Christ to forgive Peter: 'He knew the disciple's heart!' Joseph--do you not also know the heart of your Magdalena?"

A tremor ran through the strong man's frame and, unable to utter a word, he threw his arm around her and his head drooped on her breast.

"Joseph, you are ignorant of the world, and the bonds with which it fetters even the freest souls. Therefore you must _believe_ in me! It will often happen that I shall be forced to do something incomprehensible to you. If you did not then have implicit faith in me, we could never live happily together. This very day I had resolved to break with society, strip off all its chains. But no matter how many false and culpable ideas it has--its principles, nevertheless, rest upon a foundation of morality. That is why it can impose its fetters upon the very persons who have nothing in common with its _immoral_ side. Nay, were it merely an _immoral_ power it would be easy, in a moment of pious enthusiasm, to shake off its thrall--but when we are just on the eve of doing so, when we believe ourselves actually free, it throws around our feet the snare of a _duty_ and we are prisoned anew. Such was my experience to-day with my father! I should have been compelled to sunder every tie, had I told him the truth! I was too weak to provoke the terrible catastrophe--and deferred it, by disowning you."

Freyer quivered with pain.

She stroked his clenched hand caressingly. "I know what this must be. I know how the proud man must rebel when the woman he loved did _that_. But I also expect my angel to know what it cost me!"

She gently tried to loose his clenched fingers, which gradually yielded till the open hand lay soft and unresisting in her own. "Look at me," she continued in her sweet, melting tones: "look at my pallid face, my eyes reddened with weeping--and then answer whether I have suffered during these hours?"

"I do see it!" said Freyer, gently.

"Dear husband! I come to you with my great need, with my great love--and my great guilt. Will you thrust me from you?"

He could hold out no longer, but with loving generosity clasped the pleading woman to his heart.

"I knew it, you are the embodiment of goodness, gentleness--love! You will have patience with your weak, sinful wife--you will ennoble and sanctify her, and not despair if it is a long time ere the work is completed. You promise, do you not?" she murmured fervently amid her kisses, breathing into his inmost life the ardent pleading of her remorse.

And, with a solemn vow, he promised never to be angry with her again, never to desert her until she _herself_ sent him away.

She had conquered--he trusted her once more. And now--she must profit by this childlike confidence.

"I thank you!" she said, after a long silence. "Now I shall have courage to ask you a serious question. But let us send home the friend who is waiting outside, you can take me back yourself."

"Certainly, my child," said Freyer, smiling, and went out to seek Ludwig. "He was satisfied," he said returning. "Now speak--and tell me everything that weighs upon your heart--no one can hear us save God." And he drew her into a loving embrace.

"Joseph," the countess began in an embarrassed tone. "The decisive hour has come sooner than I expected and I am compelled to ask, 'Will you be my husband--but only before God, not men.'"

Freyer drew back a step. "What do you mean?"

"Will you listen to me quietly, dearest?" she asked, gently.

"Speak, my child."

"Joseph! I promised to-day to become your wife--and I will keep the pledge, but our marriage must be a secret one."

"And why?"

"My husband's will disinherits me, as soon as I give up the name of Wildenau. If I marry you, I shall be dependent upon the generosity of my husband's cousins, who succeed me as his heirs, and they are not even obliged to give me an annuity--so I shall be little better than a beggar."

"Oh, is that all? What does it matter? Am I not able to support my wife--that is, if she can be satisfied with the modest livelihood a poor wood-carver like myself can offer?"

The countess, deeply touched, smiled. "I knew that you would say so. But, my angel, that would only do, if I had no other duties. But, you see, this is one of the snares with which the world draws back those who endeavor to escape its spell. I have a father--an unhappy man whom I can neither respect nor love--a type of the brilliant misery, the hollow shams, to which so many lives in our circle fall victims, a gambler, a spendthrift, but still _my father_! He asks pecuniary aid which I can render only if I remain the Countess Wildenau. Dare I be happy and let my father go to ruin?"

"No!" groaned Freyer, whose head sank like a felled tree on the arms which rested folded on the table.

"Then what is left to us--my beloved, save _separation_ or a secret marriage? Surely we would not profane the miracle which God has wrought in us by any other course?"

"No--never!"

"Well--then I must say to you: 'choose!'"

"Oh, Heaven! this is terrible. I must not be allowed to assert my sacred rights before men--must live like a dishonored man under ban? And _where_ and _when_ could we meet?"

"Joseph--I can offer you the position of steward of my estates, which will enable us to live together constantly and meet without the least restraint. I can recompense you a hundredfold, for what you resign here, my property shall be yours, as well as all that I am and have--you shall miss nothing save outward appearances, the triumph of appearing before the world as the husband of the Countess Wildenau."

"Oh! God, Thou art my witness that no such thought ever entered my heart. If you were poor and miserable, starving by the wayside, I would raise you and bear you proudly in my arms into my house. If you were blind and lame, ill and deserted, I would watch and cherish you day and night--nay, it would be my delight to work for you and earn, by my own industry, the bread you eat. When I brought it, I would offer it on my knees and kiss your dear hands for accepting it. But your servant, your hireling, I cannot be! Tell me yourself--could you still love me if I were?"

"Yes, for my love is eternal!"

"Do not deceive yourself; you have loved me as a poor, but _free_ citizen of Ammergau--as your paid servant you would despise me."

"You shall not be my servant--it is merely necessary to find some pretext before the world which will render it possible for us to be constantly together without exciting suspicion--and the office of a steward is this pretext!"

"Twist and turn it as you will--I shall eat your bread, and be your subordinate. Oh, Heaven, I was so proud and am now so terribly humiliated--so suddenly hurled from the height to which you had raised me!"

"It will be no humiliation to accept what my love bestows and my superabundance shares with you."

"It _is_, and I could be your husband only on the condition that I might continue to work and earn my own support."

"Oh! the envious arrogance of the poor, who grudge the rich the noblest privilege--that of doing good. Believe me, true pride would be to say to yourself that your noble nature a thousand times outweighed the petty sacrifice of worldly goods which I could make for you. He who scorns money can accept it from others because he knows that the outward gift is valueless, compared with the treasures of happiness love can offer. Or do you feel so poor in love that you could not pay me the trivial debt for the bit of bread I furnished? Then indeed--let me with my wealth languish in my dearth of happiness and boast that you sacrificed to your pride the most faithful of women--but do not say that you loved the woman!"

"My dove!"

"I am doing what I can!" she continued, mournfully, "I am offering you myself, my soul, my freedom, my future--and you are considering whether it will not degrade you to eat my bread and be apparently my servant, while in reality you are my master and my judge.--I have nothing more to say, you shall have your will, but decide quickly, for what is to be done must be done at once. My father himself (when he perceived that I really intended to marry) advised me to be wedded by our old pastor at Prankenberg. But I know my father, and am aware that he was only luring me into a trap. He will receive from me to-morrow a power of attorney to raise some money he needs--the day after he will invent some new device to keep me in his power. We must take the pastor at Prankenberg by surprise before he can prevent it. Now decide!"

"Omnipotent God!" exclaimed Freyer. "What shall I, what must I do? Oh! my love, I ought not to desert you--and even if I ought--I _could_ not, for I could no longer live without you! You know that I must take what you offer, and that my fate will be what you assign! But, dearest, how I shall endure to be your husband and yet regarded as your servant, I know not. If you could let this cup pass from me, it would be far better for us both."

"And did God spare the Saviour the cup? Was Christ too proud to take upon Him His cross and His ignominy, while you--cannot even bear the yoke your wife imposes, is _forced_ to impose?"

He bowed his head to the earth. Tears sparkled in his radiant eyes, he was once more the Christ. As his dark eyes rested upon her in the dim light diffused by the lamp, with all the anguish of the Crucified Redeemer, Madeleine von Wildenau again felt a thrill of awe in the presence of something supernatural--a creature belonging to some middle realm, half spirit, half mortal--and the perception that he could never belong wholly to the earth, never wholly to _her_. She could not explain this feeling, he was so kind, so self-sacrificing. Had she had any idea that such a man was destined to absorb _us_, not we _him_, the mystery would have been solved. What she was doing was precisely the reverse. His existence must be sacrificed to hers--and she had a vague suspicion that this was contrary to the laws of his noble, privileged nature.

But he, unconscious of himself, in his modest simplicity, only knew that he must love the countess to the end--and deemed it only just that he should purchase the measureless happiness of calling this woman his by an equally boundless sacrifice. The appeal to Christ had suddenly made him believe that God proposed to give him the opportunity to continue in life the part of a martyr which he was no longer permitted to play on the stage. The terrible humiliation imposed by the woman whom he loved was to be the cross received in exchange for the one he had resigned.

"Very well, then, for the sake of Christ's humility!" he said, sadly, as if utterly crushed. "Give me whatever position you choose, but I fear you will discover too late that you have robbed yourself of the _best_ love I have to bestow. Your nature is not one which can love a vassal. You will be like the children who tear off the butterfly's wings and then--throw aside the crawling worm with loathing. My wings were my moral freedom and my self-respect. At this moment I have lost them, for I am only a weak, love-sick man who must do whatever an irresistible woman requires. It is no free moral act, as is usual when a man exchanges an equal existence with his chosen wife.

"If you think _that_, Joseph," said the countess, turning pale, "it will certainly be better--for me to leave you." She turned with dignity toward the door.

"Yes, go!" he cried in wild anguish--"go! Yet you know that you will take me with you, like the crown of thorns you dragged caught in the hem of your dress!" He threw himself on his knees at her feet. "What am I? Your slave. In Heaven's name, be my mistress and take me. I place my soul in your keeping--I trust it to your generosity--but woe betide us both, if you do not give me yours in return. I ask nothing save your soul--but that I want wholly."

The exultant woman clasped him in a passionate embrace: "Yes, give yourself a prisoner to me, and trust your fate to my hands. I will be a gentle mistress to you--you, beloved slave, you shall not be _more_ mine than I am yours--that is, _wholly_ and _forever_."

CHAPTER XVII.

FLYING FROM THE CROSS.

The burgomaster went to the office every morning at six o'clock, for the work to be accomplished during the day was very great and required an early beginning. Freyer usually arrived about seven to share the task with him. On Fridays, however, he often commenced his labor before the energetic burgomaster. It was on that day that the rush upon the ticket office began, and every one's hands were filled.

But to-day Freyer seemed to be in no hurry. It was after seven--he ought to have arrived long before. He had been absent yesterday, too. The stranger must have taken complete possession of him. The burgomaster shook his head--Freyer's conduct since the countess' arrival, had not pleased him. He had never neglected his duties to the community. And at the very time when the Passion Play had attained unprecedented success. How could any one think of anything else--anything _personal_, especially the man who took the part of the Christ! There were heaps of orders lying piled before him, how could they be disposed of, if Freyer did not help.

This countess was a beautiful woman--and probably a fascinating one. But to the burgomaster there was but _one_ beauty--that of the angel of his home. High above the turmoil of the crowd, in quiet, aristocratic seclusion, the lonely man sat at his desk in his bare, plain office. But the angel of Ammergau visited him here; he leaned his weary head upon His breast, _His_ kiss rewarded his unselfish labor, _His_ radiance illumined the unassuming citizen. No house was so poor and insignificant that at this season the angel of Ammergau did not take up His abode within and shed upon it His own sanctity and dignity. But to him who was the personification of Ammergau, the man who was obliged to care for everything--watch over everything--bear the responsibility of everything, to him the angel brought the reward which men cannot give--the proud consciousness of what he was to his home in these toilsome days. But it was quite time that Freyer should come! The burgomaster rang his bell. The bailiff entered.

"Kleinhofer, see where Herr Freyer is--or the drawing-master. _One_ of them can surely be found."

"Yes, Herr Burgomaster." The man left the room.

The burgomaster leaned back in his chair to wait. His eyes rested a few seconds on one of Dore's pictures, Christ condemned by Pontius Pilate. He involuntarily compared the engraving with the grouping on the stage. "Ah, if we could do that! If living beings, with massive bones and clumsy joints, would be as pliable as canvas and brushes!" he thought, sorrowfully. "Wherever human beings are employed there must be defects and imperfections. Perfection, absolute beauty, exist only in the imagination! Yet ought not an inflexible stage manager, by following the lines of the work of art, to succeed in shaping even the rudest material into the artistic idea."

"Much--much remains to be done," said the singular stage manager in pitiless self-criticism, resting his head on his hand. "When one thinks of what the Meininger company accomplishes! But of course they work with _artists_--I with natural talent! Then we are restricted in alloting the parts by dilettante traditional models--and, worst of all, by antiquated statutes and prejudices." The vision of Josepha Freyer rose before him, he keenly felt the blow inflicted on the Passion Play when the beautiful girl, the very type of Mary Magdalene, was excluded. "The whole must suffer under such circumstances! The actors cannot be chosen according to talent and individuality; these things are a secondary consideration. The first is the person's standing in the community! A poor servant would be allowed to play only an inferior part, even if he possessed the greatest talent, and the principal ones are the monopoly of the influential citizens. From a contingent thus arbitrarily limited the manager is compelled to distribute the characters for the great work, which demands the highest powers. It is a gigantic labor, but it will be accomplished, nothing is needed save patience and an iron will! They will grow with their task. The increasing success of the Passion Play will teach them to understand how important it is that artistic interests should supersede all others. Then golden hours will first dawn on Ammergau. May God permit me to witness it!" he added. And he confidently hoped to do so; for there was no lack of talent, and with a few additions great results might be accomplished. This year the success of the Play was secured by Freyer, who made the audience forget all less skilful performers. With him the Passion Play of the present year would stand or fall. The burgomaster's eyes rested with a look of compassion upon the Christ of Dore and the Christ personated by Freyer, as it hovered before his memory--and Freyer bore the test. He had come from the hand of his Creator a living work of art, perfect in every detail. "Thank Heaven that we have him!" murmured the burgomaster, with a nod of satisfaction.

Some one knocked at the door. "At last," said the burgomaster: "Come in!"

It was not the person whom he expected, but Ludwig Gross!

He tottered forward as if his feet refused to obey his will. His grave face was waxen-yellow in its hue and deeply lined--his lips were tightly compressed--drops of perspiration glittered on his brow.

The burgomaster glanced at him in alarm: "What is it? What has happened?"

Ludwig Gross drew a letter from his pocket, "Be prepared for bad news."

"For Heaven's sake, cannot the performance take place? We have sold more than a thousand tickets."

"That would be the least difficulty. Be strong, Herr Burgomaster--I have a great misfortune to announce."

"Has it anything to do with Freyer?" exclaimed the magistrate, with sudden foreboding.

"Freyer has gone--with Countess Wildenau!"

"Run away?" cried the burgomaster, inexorably giving the act the right name.

"Yes, I have just found these lines on his table."

The burgomaster turned pale as if he had received a mortal wound. A peal of thunder seemed to echo in his ears--the thunder which had shattered the temple of Jerusalem, whose priest he was! The walls fell, the veil was rent and revealed the place of execution. Golgotha lay before him. He heard the rustling wings of the departing guardian angel of Ammergau. High above, in terrible solitude, towered the cross, but it was empty--he who should hang upon it--had vanished! Grey clouds gathered around the desolate scene.

But from the empty cross issued a light--not a halo, but like the livid, phosphorescent glimmer of rotten wood! It shone into a chasm where, from a jutting rock, towered a single tree, upon which hung, faithful to his task--Judas!

A peal of jeering laughter rose from the depths. "You have killed yourself in vain. Your victim has escaped. See the conscientious Judas, who hung himself, while the other is having a life of pleasure!"

Shame and disgrace! "The Christ has fled from the cross." Malicious voices echo far and wide, cynicism exults--baseness has conquered, the divine has become a laughing-stock for children--the Passion Play a travesty.

The phosphorescent wood of the cross glimmered before the burgomaster's eyes. Aye, it was rotten and mouldering--this cross--it must crumble--the corruption of the world had infected and undermined it, and this had happened in Oberammergau--under _his_ management.

The unfortunate man, through whose brain this chain of thoughts was whirling, sat like a stone statue before his friend, who stood waiting modestly, without disturbing his grief by a single word.

What the two men felt--each knew--was too great for utterance.

The burgomaster was mechanically holding Freyer's letter in his clenched hand. Now his cold, stiff fingers reminded him of it. He laid it on the table, his eyes resting dully on the large childish characters of the unformed hand: "Forgive me!" ran the brief contents. "I am no longer worthy to personate the Saviour! Not from lack of principle, but on account of it do I resign my part. Ere you read these lines, I shall be far away from here! God will not make His sacred cause depend upon any individual--He will supply my place to you! Forget me, and forgive the renegade whose heart will be faithful to you unto death! Freyer!"

Postscript:

"Sell my property--the house, the field, and patch of woods which was not burned and divide the proceeds among the poor of Ammergau. I will send you the legal authority from the nearest city.

"Once more, farewell to all!"

The burgomaster sat motionless, gazing at the sheet. He could have read it ten times over--yet he still stared at the lines.

Ludwig Gross saw with terror that his eyes were glassy, his features changed. The calmness imposed by the iron will had become the rigidity of death. The drawing-master shook him--now, in the altered position, the inert body lost its balance and fell against the back of the chair. His friend caught the tottering figure and supported the noble head. It was possible for him to reach the bell with his other hand and summon Kleinhofer. "The doctor--quick--tell him to come at once!" he shouted. The man hurried off in terror.

The news that the burgomaster had been stricken with apoplexy ran through the village like wild fire. Every one rushed to the office. The physician ran bare-headed across the street. The confusion was boundless.

Ludwig could scarcely control the tumult. Supporting the burgomaster with one arm, he pushed the throng back with the other. The doctor could scarcely force his way through the crowded room. He rubbed the temples and arteries of the senseless man. "I don't think it is apoplexy, only a severe congestion of the brain," he said, "but we cannot tell what the result may be. He has long been overworked and over-excited."

The remedies applied began to act, the burgomaster opened his eyes. But as if he were surrounded by invisible fiends which, like wild beasts, were only held in check by the firm gaze of the tamer and, ever ready to spring, were only watching for the moment when they might wrest from him the sacred treasure confided to his care--his dim eyes in a few seconds regained the steady flash of the watchful, imperious master. And the discipline which his unyielding will was wont to exert over his limbs instantly restored his erect bearing. No one save the physician and Ludwig knew what the effort cost him.

"Yes," said the doctor in a low tone to the drawing-master: "This is the consequence of his never granting himself any rest during these terrible exertions."

The burgomaster had gone to the window and obtained a little air. Then he turned to the by-standers. His voice still trembled slightly, but otherwise not the slightest weakness was perceptible, and nothing betrayed the least emotion.

"I am glad, my friends, that we are all assembled--otherwise I should have been compelled to summon you. Is the whole parish here? We must hold a consultation at once. Kleinhofer, count them."

The man obeyed.

"They are all here," he said.

At that moment the burgomaster's wife rushed in with Anastasia. They had been in the fields and had just learned the startling news of the illness of the husband and brother.

"Pray be calm!" he said, sternly. "There is nothing wrong with me--nothing worth mentioning."

The weeping women were surrounded by their friends but the burgomaster, with an imperious wave of the hand, motioned them to the back of the room. "If you wish to listen--and it is my desire that you should--keep quiet. We have not a moment to lose." He turned to the men of the parish.

"Dear friends and companions! I have tidings which I should never have expected a native of Ammergau would be compelled to relate of a fellow citizen. A great misfortune has befallen us. We no longer have a Christ! Freyer has suddenly gone away."

A cry of horror and indignation answered him. A medley of shouts and questions followed, mingled with fierce imprecations.

"Be calm, friends. Do not revile him. We do not know what has occurred. True, I cannot understand how such a thing was possible--but we must not judge where we know no particulars. At any rate we will respect ourselves by speaking no evil of one of our fellow citizens--for that he was, in spite of his act."

Ludwig secretly pressed his hand in token of gratitude.

"This misfortune is sent by God"--the burgomaster continued--"we will not judge the poor mortal who was merely His tool. Regard him as one dead, as he seems to regard himself. He has bequeathed his property to our poor--we will thank him for that, as is right--in other respects he is dead to us."

The burgomaster took the letter from the table. "Here is his last will for Ammergau, I will read it to you." The burgomaster calmly read the paper, but it seemed as if his voice, usually so firm, trembled.

When he had finished, deep silence reigned. Many were wiping their eyes, others gazed sullenly into vacancy--a solemn hush, like that which prevails at a funeral, had taken possession of the assembly. "We cannot tell," the burgomaster repeated: "Peace to his ashes--for the fire which will be so destructive to us is still blazing in him. We can but say, may God forgive him, and let these be the last words uttered concerning him."

"May God forgive him!" murmured the sorely stricken assemblage.

"Amen!" replied the burgomaster. "And now, my friends, let us consult what is to be done. We cannot deceive ourselves concerning our situation. It is critical, nay hopeless. The first thing we must try to save is our honor. When it becomes known that one of our number, and that one the Christ--has deserted his colors, or rather the cross, we shall be disgraced and our sacred cause must suffer. _Our_ honor here is synonymous with the honor of God, and if we do not guard it for ourselves we must for His sake."

A murmur of assent answered him. He continued: "Therefore we must make every effort to keep the matter secret. We can say that Freyer had suddenly succumbed to the exertion imposed by his part, and to save his life had been obliged to seek a warmer climate! Those who _know_ us men of Ammergau will not believe that any one would retire on account of his health, nay would prefer death rather than to interrupt the performances--but there are few who do know us."

"God knows that!" said the listeners, mournfully.

"Therefore I propose that we all promise to maintain the most absolute secrecy in regard to the real state of affairs and give the pretext just suggested to the public."

"Yes, yes--we will agree not to say anything else," the men readily assented. "But the women--they will chatter," said Andreas Gross.

"That is just what I fear. I can rely upon you men," replied the burgomaster, casting a stern glance at the girls and women. "The men are fully aware of the meaning and importance of our cause. It is bad enough that so many are not understood and supported by their wives! You--the women of Ammergau--alas that I must say it--you have done the place and the cause more harm by your gossip than you can answer for to the God who honors us with His holy mission. There is chattering and tattling where you think you can do so unpunished, and many things are whispered into the ears of the visitors which afterwards goes as false rumors through the world! You care nothing for the great cause, if you get an opportunity to gratify some bit of petty malice. Now you are weeping, are you not? Because we are ruined--the performances must cease! But are you sure that Joseph Freyer would have been capable of treating us in this way, had it not been for the flood of gossip you poured out on him and his cousin, Josepha? It embittered his mind against us and drove him into the stranger's arms. Has he not said a hundred times that, if it were not for personating the Christ, he would have left Ammergau long ago? Where _one_ bond is destroyed another tears all the more easily. Take it as a lesson--and keep silence _this_ time at least, if you can govern your feminine weakness so far! I shall make your husbands accountable for every word which escapes concerning this matter." Several of the women murmured and cast spiteful glances at the burgomaster.

"To _whom_ does this refer, _who_ is said to have tattled?" asked a stout woman with a bold face.

The burgomaster frowned. "It refers to those who feel guilty--and does not concern those who do not!" he cried, sternly. "The good silent women among you know very well that I do not mean them--and the others can take heed."

A painful pause followed. The burgomaster's eyes rested threateningly upon the angry faces of the culprits. Those who felt that they were innocent gazed at him undisturbed.

"I will answer for my wife"--"Nothing shall go from my house!" protested one after another, and thus at least every effort would be made to save the honor of Ammergau, and conceal their disgrace from the world. But now came the question how to save the Play. A warm debate followed. The people, thus robbed of their hopes, wished to continue the performances at any cost, with any cast of characters. But here they encountered the resolute opposition of the burgomaster: "Either well--or not at all!" was his ultimatum. "We cannot deceive ourselves for a moment. At present, there is not one of us who can personate the Christ--except Thomas Rendner, and where, in that case, could we find a Pilate--who could replace Thomas Rendner?"

There was a violent discussion. "The sacristan, Nathanael, could play Pilate."

"Who then would take Nathanael?"

"Ah, if this one and that one were still in the village! But they had gone away to seek their bread, like so many who could no longer earn a support since the Partenkirch School of Carving had competed with the one in Ammergau. And many more would follow. If things went on in the same fashion, and matters were not improved by the play, in ten years more there might be none to fill the parts, necessity would gradually drive every one away."

"Yes, we are in a sore strait, my friends. The company melts away more and more--the danger to the Passion Play constantly increases. If we can find no help now, penury will deprive us of some of our best performers ere the next time. And yet, my friends, believe me--I say it with a heavy heart: if we now continue with a poor cast of characters--we shall be lost wholly and forever, for then we shall have destroyed the reputation of the Passion Play."

"Thomas Rendner will personate the Christ well--there is no danger on that score."

"And if he does--if Rendner takes the Christ, the sacristan Pilate, and some one else Nathanael--shall we not be obliged to study the whole piece again, and can that be done so rapidly? Can we commence our rehearsals afresh now? I ask you, is it possible?"

The people hung their heads in hopeless discouragement.

"Our sole resource would be to find a Christ among those who are not in the Play--and all who have talent are already employed. The others cannot be used, if we desire to present an artistic whole."

Despair seized upon the listeners--there was not a single one among them who had not invested his little all in furniture and beds for the strangers, and even incurred debts for the purpose, to say nothing of the universal poverty.

New proposals were made, all of which the hapless burgomaster was compelled to reject.

"The general welfare is at a stake, and the burgomaster thinks only of the _artistic whole_."

With these words the wrath of the assembly was finally all directed against him, and those who fanned it were mainly the strangers attracted by the Passion Play for purposes of speculation, who cared nothing how much it suffered in future, if only they made their money!

"I know the elements which are stirring up strife here," said the burgomaster, scanning the assembly with his stern eyes. "But they shall not succeed in separating us old citizens of Ammergau, who have held together through every calamity! Friends, let the spirit which our forefathers have preserved for centuries save us from discord--let us not deny the good old Ammergau nature in misfortune."

"And with the good old nature you can starve," muttered the speculators.

"If the burgomaster does not consider your interests of more importance than the fame of his success as stage manager he ought to go to Munich and get the position--there he could give as many model performances as he desired!"

"Yes," cried another, "he is sacrificing our interests to his own vanity."

During this accusation the burgomaster remained standing with his figure drawn up to its full height. Only the dark swollen vein on his weary brow betrayed the indignation seething in his soul.

"I disdain to make any reply to such a charge. I know the hearts of my fellow citizens too well to fear that any one of them believes it."

"No, certainly not!" exclaimed the wiser ones. But the majority were silent in their wrathful despair.

"I know that many of you misjudge me, and I bear you no resentment for it. I admit that in such a period of storm and stress it is difficult to maintain an unprejudiced judgment.

"I know also that I myself have often bewildered your judgment, for it is impossible to create such a work without giving offense here and there. I know that many who feel wounded and slighted secretly resent it, and I do not blame them! Only I beg you to visit the rancor on me _personally_--not extend it to the cause and injure that out of opposition to me. In important moments like these, I beg you to let all private grudges drop and gather around me--in this one decisive hour think only of the whole community, and not of all the wrongs the burgomaster may have done you individually.

"If I had only the interest of Ammergau to guard, all would be well! But I have not only _your_ welfare to protect, but the dignity of a cause for which I am responsible to _God_--so long as it remains in my hands. Human nature is weak and subject to external impressions. The religious conceptions of thousands depend upon the greater or less powerful illusion produced by the Passion Play as a moral symbol. This is a heavy responsibility in a time when negation and materialism are constantly undermining faith and dragging everything sacred in the dust. In such a period, the utmost perfection of detail is necessary, that the _form_ at least may command respect, where the _essence_ is despised. I will try to make this dear to you by an example. The cynic who sneers at our worship of Mary and, with satirical satisfaction, paints the Virgin as the corpulent mother of four or five boys, will laugh at an Altoetting Virgin but grow silent and earnest before a Sistine Madonna! For here the divinity in which he does not wish to believe confronts him in the work of art and compels his reverence. It is precisely in a period of materialism like the present that religious representation has its most grateful task--for the deeper man sinks into sensualism, the more accessible he is to sensual impressions, and the more easily religion can influence him through visible forms, repelling or attracting according to the defective or artistic treatment of the material. The religious-sensuous impetus is the only one which can influence times like these, that is why the Passion Play is more important now than ever!

"God has bestowed upon me the modest talent of organization and a little artistic culture, that I may watch over it, and see that those who come to us trustfully to seek their God, do not go away with a secret disappointment--and that those who come to _laugh_ may be quiet--and ashamed.

"This is the great task allotted to me, which I have hitherto executed without regard for personal irritability, and the injury of petty individual interests, and hope to accomplish even under stress of the most dire necessity.

"If you wish to oppose it, you should have given the office I occupy to some one who thinks the task less lofty, and who is complaisant enough to sacrifice the noble to the petty. But see where you will end with the complaisant man, who listens to every one. See how soon anarchy will enter among you, for where individual guidance is lacking, and every one can assert his will, the seed of discord shoots up, overgrowing everything. Now you are all against _me_, but then you will be against _one another_, and while you are quarreling and disputing, time will pass unused, and at last the first antiquated model will be seized because it can be most easily and quickly executed. But the modern world will turn away with a derisive laugh, saying: 'We can't look at these peasant farces any more.'

"Then answer for robbing thousands of a beautiful illusion and letting them return home poorer in faith and reverence than they came--answer for it to God, whose sublime task you have degraded by an inferior performance, and lastly to yourselves for forgetting the future in the present gain, and to profit by the Passion Play a few more times now, ruin it for future decades. You do not believe it because, in this secluded village, you cannot know what the taste of our times demands. But I do, for I have lived in the outside world, and I tell you that whoever sees these incomplete performances will certainly not return, and will make us a reputation stamping us as bunglers forever!"

The burgomaster pressed his hand to his head; a keen pang was piercing his brain--and his heart also.

"I have nothing more to add," he concluded, faintly. "But if you know any one whom you believe could care for Ammergau better than I--I am ready at any moment to place my office in his hands."

Then, with one accord, every heart swelled with the old lofty feeling for the sacred cause of their ancestors and grateful appreciation of the man who had again roused it in them. No, he did not deserve that they should doubt him--he had again taught them to think like true natives of Ammergau, aye, they felt proudly that he was of the true stock--it was Ammergau blood that flowed in his veins and streamed from the wounds which had been inflicted on his heart that day! They saw that they had wronged him and they gathered with their old love and loyalty around the sorely-beset man, ready to atone with their lives, for these hot-blooded, easily influenced artist-natures were nevertheless true to the core.

The malcontents were forced to keep silence, no one listened to them. All flocked around the burgomaster. "We will stand by you. Burgomaster--only tell us what we are to do--and how we can help ourselves. We rely wholly upon you."

"Alas! my friends, I must reward your restored confidence with unpalatable counsel. Let us bear the misfortune like men! It is better to fell trees in the forest, go out as day laborers--nay, _starve_--rather than be faithless to the spirit of our ancestors! Am I not right?" A storm of enthusiasm answered him.

It was resolved to announce the close of the Passion Play for this decade. The document was signed by all the members of the community.

"So it is ended for this year! For many of us perhaps for this life!" said the burgomaster. "I thank all who have taken part in the Play up to this time. I will report the receipts and expenditures within a few days. In consideration of the painful cause, we will dispense with any formal close."

A very different mood from the former one now took possession of the assembly. All anxiety concerning material things vanished in the presence of a deeper sorrow. It was the great, mysterious grief of parting, which seized all who had to do anything connected with the "Passion." It seemed as if the roots of their hearts had become completely interwoven with it and must draw blood in being torn away, as if a part of their lives went with it. The old men felt the pang most keenly. "For the last time for this life!" are words before whose dark portal we stand hesitating, be it where it may--but if this "for the last time" concerns the highest and dearest thing we possess on earth, they contain a fathomless gulf of sadness! Old Barabbas, the man of ninety, was the first, to express it--the others joined in and the greybeards who had been young together and devoted their whole lives to the cause which to them was the highest in the world, sank into one another's arms, like a body of men condemned to death.

Then one chanted the closing line of the choragus: "Till in the world beyond we meet"--and all joined as with a _single_ voice, the unutterable anguish of resigning that close communion with Deity, in which every one of them lived during this period, created its own ceremonial of farewell and found apt expression in those last words of the Passion Play.

Then they shook hands with one another, exchanging a life-long farewell. They knew that they should meet again the next day--in the same garments--but no longer what they now were, Roman governor and high-priests, apostles and saints. They were excluded from the companionship of the Lord, for their Christ had not risen as usual--he had fled and faithlessly deserted his flock, ere their task could be fulfilled. It was doubly hard!

Old Judas, the venerable Lechner, was so much moved that they were obliged to support him down the stairs: Judas weeping over Christ! The loyal man had suffered unutterably from the necessity of playing the traitor's part--the treachery now practised toward the sacred cause by the personator of Christ himself--fairly broke his heart! "That I must live to witness this!" he murmured, wringing his hands as he descended the steps. But Thomas Rendner shook his handsome head and mournfully repeated the momentous words of Pilate: "What is truth?" With tears in his eyes, he held out his sinewy right hand consolingly to Caiaphas.

"Don't take it so much to heart, Burgomaster; God is still with us!" Then he cast a sorrowful glance toward the corner of the room. "Poor Mary! I always thought so!" he muttered compassionately, under his breath, and followed the others.

The burgomaster and Ludwig were left behind alone and followed the direction of Rendner's glance. There--it almost broke their hearts--there sat the burgomaster's sister--the "Mary" in the corner, with her hands clasped in her lap, the very attitude in which she waited for the body of her Crucified Son.

"Poor sister," said the burgomaster, deeply moved. "For what are you waiting? They will never bring him to you again."

"He will come back, the poor martyr!" she replied, her large eyes gazing with prophetic earnestness into vacancy. "He will come, weary and wounded--perhaps betrayed by all."

"Then I will have nothing to do with him," said the burgomaster in a low, firm tone.

"You can do as you please, you are a man. But I, who have so long personated his mother--I will wait and receive and comfort him, as a mother cheers her erring child."

"Oh, Anastasia!" A cry of pain escaped Ludwig's lips, and, overwhelmed by emotion, he turned away.

The burgomaster, with tender sympathy, laid his hand upon his shoulder.

"Ah, sister, Freyer is not worthy that you should love him so!"

"How do I love him?" replied the girl. "I love him as Eternal Compassion loves the poor and suffering. He _is_ poor and suffering. Oh! do not think evil of him--he does not deserve it. He is good and noble! Believe me, a mother must know her child better," she added, with the smile that reveals a breaking heart.

She looked the drawing-master kindly in the face: "Ludwig, we both understand him, do we not? _We_ believe in him, though all condemn."

Ludwig could not speak--he merely nodded silently and pressed Anastasia's hand, as if in recognition of the pledge. He was undergoing a superhuman conflict, but, with the strength peculiar to him, succeeded in repressing any display of emotion.

The burgomaster stood mutely watching the scene, and neither of the three could decide which suffered most.

He gazed in speechless grief at the clasped hands of his sister and his friend. How often he had wished for this moment, and now--? What _parted_ alone united them, and what united, divided.

"Aye, Freyer has brought much misery upon us!" he said, with sullen resentment. "I only hope that he will never set foot again upon the soil of his forefathers!"

"Oh, Brother, how can you speak so--you do not mean it. I know that his heart will draw him back here; he will seek his home again, and he shall find it. You will not thrust him from you when he returns from foreign lands sorrowing and repentant. God knows how earnestly I wish him happiness, but I do not believe that he will possess it. And as he will be loyal to us in his inmost soul, we will be true to him and prepare a resting place when the world has nailed his heart upon the cross. Shall we not, Ludwig?"

"Yes, by Heaven, we will!" faltered Ludwig, and his tears fell on the beautiful head of the girl, who still sat motionless, as if she must wait here for the lost one.

"Woman, behold thy son--son, behold thy mother!" stirred the air like a breath.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MARRIAGE.

On a wooded height, hidden in the heart of the forests of the Bavarian highlands, stood an ancient hunting castle, the property of the Wildenau family. A steep mountain path led up to it, and at its feet, like a stone sea, stretched the wide, dry bed of a river, a Griess, as it was called in that locality. Only a few persons knew the way; to the careless glance the path seemed wholly impassable.

Bare, rugged cliffs towered like a wall around the hunting castle on its mossy height, harmonizing in melancholy fashion with the white sea of stone below, which formed a harsh foreground to the dreary scene. Ever and anon a stag emerged from the woods, crossing the Griess with elastic tread, the brown silhouette of its antlers sharply relieved against the colorless monotony of the landscape. The hind came forward from the opposite side, slowly, reluctantly, with nostrils vibrating. The report of a rifle echoed from beyond the river bed, the antlers drooped, the royal creature fell upon its knees, then rolled over on its back; its huge antlers, flung backward in the death agony, were thrust deep down among the loose pebbles. The hind had fled, the poacher seized his prey--a slender rill of blood trickled noiselessly through the stones, then everything was once more silent and lifeless.

This was the hiding-place where, for seven years, Countess Wildenau had hidden the treasury filched from the cross--the rock sepulchre in which she intended to keep the God whom the world believed dead. Built close against the cliff, half concealed by an overhanging precipice, the castle seemed to be set in a niche. Shut out from the sunshine by the projecting crag which cast its shadow over it even at noonday, it was so cold and damp that the moisture trickled down the walls of the building, and, moreover, was surrounded by that strange atmosphere of wet moss and rotting mushrooms which awakens so strange a feeling when, after a hot walk, we pause to rest in the cool courtyard of some ruined castle, where our feet sink into wet masses of mouldering brown leaves which for decades no busy hand has swept away. It seems as if the sun desired to associate with human beings. Where no mortal eyes behold its rays, it ceases to shine. It does not deem it worth while to penetrate the heaps of withered leaves, or the tangle of wild vines and bushes, or the veil of cobwebs and lime-dust which, in the course of time, accumulates in heaps in the masonry of a deserted dwelling.

As we see by a child's appearance whether or not it has a loving mother, so the aspect of a house reveals whether or not it is dear to its owner, and as a neglected child drags out a joyless existence, so a neglected house gradually becomes cold and inhospitable.

This was the case with the deserted little hunting seat. No foot had crossed its threshold within the memory of man. What could the Countess Wildenau do with it? It was so remote, so far from all the paths of travel, so hidden in the woods that it would not even afford a fine view. It stood as an outpost on the chart containing the location of the Wildenau estates. It had never entered the owner's mind to seek it out in this--far less in reality.

Every year an architect was sent there to superintend the most necessary repairs, because it was not fitting for a Wildenau to let one of these family castles go to ruin. This was all that was done to preserve the building. The garden gradually ran to waste, and became so blended with the forest that the boughs of the trees beat against the windows of the edifice and barred out like a green hedge the last straggling sunbeams. A castle for a Sleeping Beauty, but without the sleeping princess. Then Fate willed that a blissful secret in its owner's breast demanded just such a hiding-place in which to dream the strangest fantasy ever imagined by woman since Danae rested in the embrace of Jove.

Madeleine von Wildenau sought and found this forgotten spot in her chart, and, with the energy bestowed by the habit of being able to accomplish whatever we desire, she discovered a secret ford through the Griess, known only to a trustworthy old driver, and no one was aware of Countess Wildenau's residence when she vanished from society for days. There were rumors of a romantic adventure or a religious ecstacy into which the Ammergau Passion Play had transported her years before. She had set off upon her journey to the Promised Land directly after, and as no sea is so wide, no mountain so lofty, that gossip cannot find its way over them, it even made its way from the Holy Sepulchre to the drawing rooms of the capital.

A gentleman, an acquaintance of so-and-so, had gone to the Orient, and in Jerusalem, at the Holy Sepulchre, met a veiled lady, who was no other than Countess Wildenau. There would have been nothing specially remarkable in that. But at the lady's side knelt a gentleman who bore so remarkable a resemblance to the pictures of Christ that one might have believed it was the Risen Lord Himself who, dissatisfied with heaven, had returned repentant to His deserted resting-place.

How interesting! The imagination of society, thirsting for romance, naturally seized upon this bit of news with much eagerness.

Who could the gentleman with the head of Christ be, save the Ammergau Christ? This agreed with the sudden interruption of the Passion Play that summer, on account of the illness of the Christ--as the people of Ammergau said, who perfectly understood how to keep their secrets from the outside world.

But as they committed the imprudence of occasionally sending their daughters to the city, one and another of these secrets of the community, more or less distorted, escaped through the dressing-rooms of the mistresses of these Ammergau maids.

Thus here and there a flickering ray fell upon the Ammergau catastrophe: The Christ was not ill--he had vanished--run away--with a lady of high rank. What a scandal! Then lo! one day Countess Wildenau appeared--after a journey of three years in the east--somewhat absentminded, a little disposed to assume religious airs, but without any genuine piety. Religion is not to be obtained by an indulgence of religious-erotic rapture with its sweet delusions--it can be obtained only by the hard labor of daily self-sacrifice, of which a nature like Madeleine von Wildenau's has no knowledge.

So she returned, somewhat changed--yet only so far as that her own ego, which the world did not know, was even more potential than before.

But she came alone! Where had she left her pallid Christ? All inquiries were futile. What could be said? There was no proof of anything--and besides; proven or not--what charge would have overthrown Countess Wildenau? That would have been an achievement for which even her foes lacked perseverance?

It is very amusing when a person's moral ruin can be effected by a word carelessly uttered! But when the labor of producing proof is associated with it, people grow good-natured from sheer indolence--let the victim go, and seek an easier prey.

This was the case with the Countess Wildenau! Her position remained as unshaken as ever, nay the charm of her person exerted an influence even more potent than before. Was it her long absence, or had she grown younger? No matter--she had gained a touch of womanly sweetness which rendered her irresistible.

In what secret mine of the human heart and feeling had she garnered the rays which glittered in her eyes like hidden treasures on which the light of day falls for the first time?

When a woman conceals in her heart a secret joy men flock around her, with instinctive jealousy, all the more closely, they would fain dispute the sweet right of possession with the invisible rival. This is a trait of human nature. But one of the number did so consciously, not from a jealous instinct but with the full, intense resolve of unswerving fidelity--the prince! With quiet caution, and the wise self-control peculiar to him, he steadily pursued his aim. Not with professions of love; he was only too well aware that love is no weapon against love! On the contrary, he chose a different way, that of cold reason.

"So long as she is aglow with love, she will be proof against any other feeling--she must first be cooled to the freezing-point, then the chilled bird can be clasped carefully to the breast and given new warmth."

It would be long ere that point was reached--but he knew how to wait!

Meanwhile he drew the Countess into a whirl of the most fascinating amusements.

No word, no look betrayed the still hopeful lover! With the manner of one who had relinquished all claims, but was too thoroughly a man of the world to avoid an interesting woman because he had failed to win her heart, he again sought her society after her return. Had he betrayed the slightest sign of emotion, he would have been repulsive in her present mood. But the perfect frankness and unconcern with which he played the "old friend" and nothing more, made his presence a comfort, nay even a necessity of life! So he became her inseparable companion--her shadow, and by the influence of his high position stifled every breath of slander, which floated from Ammergau to injure his beautiful friend.

During the first months after her return she had the whim--as she called it--of retiring from society and spending more time upon her estates. But the wise caution of the prince prevented it.

"For Heaven's sake, don't do that. Will you give free play to the rumors about your Ammergau episode and the pilgrimage to Jerusalem connected with it, by withdrawing into solitude and thus leaving the field to your slanderers, that they may disport at will in the deserted scenes of your former splendor?"

"This," he argued, "is the very time when you must take your old position in society, or you will be--pardon my frankness--a fallen star."

The Countess evidently shrank from the thought.

"Or--have you some castle in the air whose delights outweigh the world in your eyes?" he asked with relentless insistence:

This time the Countess flushed to the fair curls which clustered around her forehead.

Since that time the drawing-rooms of the Wildenau palace had again been filled with the fragrance of roses--lighted, and adorned with glowing Oriental magnificence, and the motley tide of society, amid vivacious chatter, flooded the spacious apartments. Glittering with diamonds, intoxicated by the charm of her own beauty whose power she had not tested for years, the Countess was the centre of all this splendor--while in the lonely hunting-seat beyond the pathless Griess, the solitary man whom she had banished thither vainly awaited--his wife.

The leaves in the forest were turning brown for the sixth time since their return from Jerusalem, the autumn gale was sweeping fresh heaps of withered leaves to add to the piles towering like walls around the deserted building, the height was constantly growing colder and more dreary, the drawing-rooms below were continually growing warmer, the Palace Wildenau, with its Persian hangings and rugs and cosy nooks behind gay screens daily became more thronged with guests. People drew their chairs nearer and nearer the blazing fire on the hearth, which cast a rosy light upon pallid faces and made weary eyes sparkle with a simulated glow of passion. The intimate friends of the Countess Wildenau, reclining in comfortable armchairs, were gathered in a group, the gentlemen resting after the fatigues of hunting--or the autumn man[oe]uvres, the ladies after the first receptions and balls of the season, which are the more exhausting before habit again asserts its sway, to say nothing of the question of toilettes, always so trying to the nerves at these early balls.

What is to be done at such times? It is certainly depressing to commence the season with last year's clothes, and one cannot get new ones because nobody knows what styles the winter will bring? Parisian novelties have not come. So one must wear an unassuming toilette of no special style in which one feels uncomfortable and casts aside afterwards, because one receives from Paris something entirely different from what was expected!

So the ladies chatted and Countess Wildenau entered eagerly into the discussion. She understood and sympathized with these woes, though now, as the ladies said, she really could not "chime in" since she had a store of valuable Oriental stuffs and embroideries, which would supply a store of "exclusive" toilettes for years. Only people of inferior position were compelled to follow the fashions--great ladies set them and the costliness of the material prevented the garments from appearing too fantastic. A Countess Wildenau could allow herself such bizarre costumes. She had a right to set the fashions and people would gladly follow her if they could, but two requirements were lacking, on one side the taste--on the other the purse. The Countess charmingly waived her friends' envious compliments; but her thoughts were not on the theme they were discussing; her eyes wandered to a crayon picture hanging beside the mantel-piece, the picture of a boy who had the marvellous beauty of one of Raphael's cherubs.

"What child is that?" asked one of the ladies who had followed her glance.

"Don't you recognize it?" replied the Countess with a dreamy smile. "It is the Christ in the picture of the Sistine Madonna."

"Why, how very strange--if you had a son one might have thought it was his portrait, it resembles you so much."

"Do you notice it?" the Countess answered. "Yes, that was the opinion of the artist who copied the picture; he gave it to me as a surprise." She rose and took another little picture from the wall. "Look, this is a portrait of me when I was three years old--there really is some resemblance."

The ladies all assented, and the gentlemen, delighted to have an opportunity to interrupt the discussion of the fashions, came forward and noticed with astonishment the striking likeness between the girl and the boy.

"It is really the Christ child in the Sistine Madonna--very exquisitely painted!" said the prince.

"By the way, Cousin," cried a sharp, high voice, over Prince Emil's shoulder, a voice issuing from a pair of very thin lips shaded by a reddish moustache, "do you know that you have the very model of this picture on your own estates?"

The Countess, with a strangely abrupt, nervous movement, pushed the copy aside and hastily turned to replace her own portrait on the wall. The gentlemen tried to aid her, but she rejected all help, though she was not very skillful in her task, and consequently was compelled to keep her back turned to the group a long time.

"It is possible--I cannot remember," she replied, while still in this position. "I cannot know the children of all my tenants."

"Yes," the jarring voice persisted, "it is a boy who is roaming about near your little hunting-castle."

Madeleine von Wildenau grew ghastly pale.

"Apropos of that hunting box," the gentleman added--he was one of the disinherited Wildenaus--"you might let me have it, Cousin. I'll confess that I've recently been looking up the old rat's nest. Schlierheim will lease his preserves beyond the government forests, but only as far as your boundaries, and there is no house. My brother and I would hire them if we could have the old Wildenau hunting-box. We are ready to pay you the largest sum the thing is worth. You know it formerly belonged to our branch of the family, and your husband obtained it only forty years ago. At that time it was valueless to us, but now we should like to buy it again."

The Countess shivered and ordered more wood to be piled on the fire. She had unconsciously drawn nearer to Prince Emily as if seeking his protection. Her shoulder touched his. She was startlingly pale.

"The recollection of her husband always affects her in this way," the prince remarked.

"Well, we will discuss the matter some other time, _belle cousine_!" said Herr Wildenau, sipping a glass of Chartreuse which the servant offered.

Prince Emil's watchful gaze followed the little scene with the closest attention.

"Did you not intend to have the little castle put in order for your father's residence, as the city air does not agree with him in his present condition?" he said, with marked emphasis.

"Yes, certainly--I--we were speaking of it a short time ago," stammered the Countess. "Besides, I am fond of the little castle. I should not wish to sell it."

"Ah, you are _fond_ of it. Pardon me--that is difficult to understand! I thought you set no value upon it--the whole place is so neglected."

"That is exactly what pleases me--I like to have it so," replied the Countess in an irritated tone. "It does not need to have everything in perfect order. It is a genuine forest idyl!"

"A forest idyl?" repeated the cousin. "H'm, Ah, yes! That's a different matter. Pardon me. Had I known it, I would not have alluded to the subject!" His keen gray eyes glittered with a peculiar light as he kissed her hand and took his leave.

The others thought they must now withdraw also, and the Countess detained no one--she was evidently very weary.

The prince also took leave--for the sake of etiquette--but he whispered, with an expression of friendly anxiety, "I will come back soon." And he kept his promise.

An hour had passed. Madeleine von Wildenau, her face still colorless, was reclining on a divan in a simple home costume.

Prince Emil's first glance sought the little table on which stood the crayon picture of the infant Christ--it had vanished.

The Countess followed his look and saw that he missed it--their eyes met. The prince took a chair and sat down by her side, as if she were an invalid who had just sustained a severe operation and required the utmost care. He himself was very pale. Gently arranging the pillows behind her, he gazed sympathizingly into her face.

"Why did you not tell me this before?" he murmured, almost inaudibly, after a pause. "All this should have been very differently managed!"

"Prince, how could I suppose that you were so generous--so noble"--she could not finish the sentence, her eyes fell, the beautiful woman's face crimsoned with shame.

He gazed earnestly at her, feeling at this moment the first great sorrow of his life, but also perceiving that he could not judge the exquisite creature who lay before him like a statue of the Magdalene carved by the most finished artist--because he could not help loving her in her sweet embarrassment more tenderly than ever.

"Madeleine," he said, softly, and his breath fanned her brow like a cooling breeze, "will you trust me? It will be easier for you."

She clasped his hand in her slender, transparent fingers, raising her eyes beseechingly to his with a look of the sweetest feminine weakness, like a young girl or an innocent child who is atoning for some trivial sin. "Let me keep my secret," she pleaded, with such touching embarrassment that it almost robbed the prince of his calmness.

"Very well," he said, controlling himself with difficulty. "I will ask no farther questions and will not strive to penetrate your secret. But if you ever need a friend--and I fear that may happen--pray commit no farther imprudences, and remember that, in me, you possess one who adds to a warm heart a sufficiently cool head to be able to act for you as this difficult situation requires! Farewell, _chere amie_! Secure a complete rest."

Without waiting for an answer, like the experienced physician, who merely prescribes for his patients without conversing with them about the matter, he disappeared.

The countess was ashamed--fairly oppressed by the generosity of his character. Would it have been better had she told him the truth?

Should she tell him that she was married? Married! Was she wedded? Could she be called a wife? She had played a farce with herself and Freyer, a farce in which, from her standpoint, she could not believe herself.

On their flight from Ammergau they had hastened to Prankenberg, surprised the old pastor in his room, and with Josepha and a coachman who had grown gray in the service of the Wildenau family for witnesses, declared in the presence of the priest that they took each other for husband and wife.

The old gentleman, in his surprise and perplexity, knew not what course to pursue. The countess appealed to the rite of the Tridentine Council, according to which she and Freyer, after this declaration, were man and wife, even without a wedding ceremony or permission to marry in another diocese. Then the loyal pastor, who had grown gray in the service of the Prankenbergs, as well as of his church, could do nothing except acknowledge the fact, declare the marriage valid, and give them the marriage certificate.

So at the breakfast-table, over the priest's smoking coffee, the bond had been formed which the good pastor was afterwards to enter in the church register as a marriage. But even this outward proof of the marriage between the widowed Countess Wildenau and the Ammergau wood-carver Freyer was removed, for the countess had been right in distrusting her father and believing that his advice concerning the secret marriage was but a stratagem of war to deter her from taking any public step.

On returning from the priest's, her carriage dashed by Prince von Prankenberg's.

Ten minutes after the prince rushed like a tempest into the room of the peaceful old pastor, and succeeded in preventing the entry of the "scandal," as he called it, in the church register. So the proofs of the fact were limited to the marriage certificate in the husband's hands and the two witnesses, Josepha and Martin, the coachman--a chain, it is true, which bound Madeleine von Wildenau, yet which was always in her power.

What was this marriage? How would a man like the prince regard it? Would it not wear a totally different aspect in the eyes of the sceptic and experienced man of the world than in those of the simple-hearted peasant who believed that everything which glittered was gold? Was such a marriage, which permitted the exercise of none of the rights and duties which elevate it into a moral institution, better than an illegal relation? Nay, rather worse, for it perpetrated a robbery of God--it was an illegal relation which had stolen a sacred name!

But--what did this mean? To-day, for the first time, she felt as if fate might give the matter the moral importance which she did not willingly accord it--as if the Deity whose name she had abused might take her at her word and compel her to turn jest into earnest.

Her better nature frankly confessed that this would be only moral justice! To this great truth she bowed her head as the full ears bend before the approaching hail storm.

Spite of the chill autumn evening, there was an incomprehensible sultriness in the air of the room.

Something in the brief conversation with Herr Wildenau and especially in the manner in which the prince, with his keen penetration, understood the episode, startled the Countess and aroused her fears.

Why had Herr Wildenau gone to the little hunting-box? How had he seen the child?

Yet how could she herself have been so imprudent as to display the picture? And still--it was the infant Christ of Raphael. Could she not even have one of Raphael's heads in her drawing-room without danger that some one would discover a suspicious resemblance!

She sprang from the cushions indignantly, drawing herself up to her full height. Who was she? What did she dread?

"Anything but cowardice, Madeleine," she cried out to herself. "Woe betide you, if your resolution fails, you are lost! If you do not look the brute gossip steadily in the eye, if so much as an eye-lash quivers, it will rend you. Do not be cowardly, Madeleine, have no scruples, they will betray you, will make your glance timid, your bearing uncertain, send a flush to your brow at every chance word. But"--she sank back among her cushions--"but unfortunately this very day the misfortune has happened, all these people may go away and say that they saw the Countess Wildenau blush and grow confused--and why?--Because a child was mentioned--"

She shuddered and cowered--a moan of pain escaped her lips!

"Yet you exist, my child--I cannot put you out of the world--and no mother ever had such a son. And I, instead of being permitted to be proud of you, must feel ashamed.

"Oh, God, thou gavest me every blessing: the man I loved, a beautiful child--all earthly power and splendor--yet no contentment, no happiness! What do I lack?" She sat a long time absorbed in gloomy thought, then suddenly the cause became clear. She lacked the moral balance of service and counter-service.

That was the reason all her happiness was but theft, and she was forced, like a thief, to enjoy it in fear and secrecy. Her maternal happiness was theft--for Josepha, the stranger, filled a mother's place to the boy, and when she herself pressed him to her heart she was stealing a love she had not earned. Her conjugal happiness was a theft, for so long as she retained her fortune, she was not permitted to marry! That was the curse! Wherever she looked, wherever she saw herself, she was always the recipient, the petitioner--and what did she bestow in return? Where did she make any sacrifice? Nothing--and nowhere! Egotism was apparent in everything. To enjoy all--possess all, even what was forbidden and sacrifice nothing, must finally render her a thief--in her own eyes, in those of God, and who knows, perhaps also in those of men, should her secret ever be discovered!

"Woe betide you, unhappy woman--have you not the strength to resign one for the other? Would you rather live in fear of the betrayer than voluntarily relinquish your stolen goods? Then do not think yourself noble or lofty--do not deem yourself worthy of the grace for which you long!"

She hid her face in the cushions of the divan, fairly quivering under the burden of her self-accusation.

"I beg your pardon, your Highness, I only wanted to ask what evening toilette you desired."

Madeleine von Wildenau started up. "If you would only cease this stealing about on tip-toe!" she angrily exclaimed. "I beg pardon, I knocked twice and thought I did not hear your 'come in.'"

"Walk so that you can be heard--I don't like to have my servants glide about like spies, remember that!"

"At Princess Hohenstein's we were all obliged to wear felt slippers. Her Highness could not endure any noise."

"Well I have better nerves than Princess Hohenstein."--

"And apparently a worse conscience," muttered the maid, who had not failed to notice her mistress' confusion.

"May I ask once more about the evening toilette?"

"Street costume--I shall not go to the theatre, I will drive out to the estates. Order Martin to have the carriage ready."

The maid withdrew.

The countess felt as if she were in a fever--must that inquisitive maid see her in such a condition? It seemed as though she was surrounded like a hunted animal, as though eyes were everywhere watching her.

There was something in the woman's look which had irritated her. Oh, God, had matters gone so far--must she fear the glance of her own maid?

Up and away to nature and her child, to her poor neglected husband on the cliff.

Her heart grew heavy at the thought that the time since she had last visited the deserted man could soon be counted by months.

Her _interest_ in the simple-hearted son of nature was beginning to wane, she could not deny it. Woe betide her if _love_ should also grow cold; if that should happen, then--she realized it with horror--she would have no excuse for the whole sensuous--supersensuous episode, which had perilled both her honor and her existence!

CHAPTER XIX.

AT THE CHILD'S BEDSIDE.

The stars were already twinkling above the Griess, here and there one looked as if impaled on a giant flagstaff, as they sparkled just above the tops of the lofty firs or the sharp pinnacles of the crags. Countless shooting stars glided hither and thither like loving glances seeking one another.

The night was breathing in long regular inhalations. Every five minutes her sleeping breath rustled the tree-tops.

Four horses drawing a small calash whose wheels were covered with rubber glided across the Griess as noiselessly as a spectral equipage. The animals knew the way, and their fiery spirit urged them forward without the aid of shout or lash, though the mountain grew steeper and steeper till the black walls of the hunting seat at last became visible in the glimmering star-light.

Josepha was standing at the window of the little sitting-room upstairs:

"I think the countess is coming." At a table, by the lamp, bending over a book, sat "the _steward_."

He evidently had not heard the words, for he did not look up from the volume and it seemed as if the gloomy shadow above his eyes grew darker still.

"Joseph, the countess is coming!" cried Josepha in a louder tone.

"You are deceiving yourself again, as usual," he replied in the wonderful voice which gave special importance to the simplest words, as when a large, musical bell is rung for some trivial cause.

"No, this time it really is she," Josepha insisted.

"I don't believe it."

Josepha shook her head. "You must receive her."

"She is not coming on my account, it is only to see the child."

"Then _I_ will go. Oh, Heaven, what a life!" sighed Josepha, going out upon the green moss-covered steps of the half ruined stone stairs where the carriage had just stopped.

"Is that you, Josepha?" asked the countess, in a disappointed tone, "where--where is Freyer?"

"He is within, your Highness, he would not believe that your Highness was really coming!"

The countess understood the bitter meaning of the words.

"I did not come to endure ill-temper!" she murmured. "Is the boy asleep?"

"Yes, we have taken him into the sitting-room, he is coughing again and his head is burning, so I wanted to have him in a warmer room."

"Isn't it warm here?"

"Since the funnel fell out, we cannot heat these rooms; Freyer tried to fit it in, but it smokes constantly. I wrote to your Highness last month asking what should be done. Freyer, too, reported a fortnight ago that the stove ought to be repaired, and the child moved to other apartments before the cold weather set in if Your Highness approved, but--we have had no answer. Now the little boy is ill--it is beginning to be very cold."

Madeleine von Waldenau bit her lips. Yes, it was true, the letters had been written--and in the whirl of society and visits she had forgotten them.

Now the child was ill--through her fault. She entered the sitting-room. Freyer stood waiting for her in a half defiant, half submissive attitude--half master, half servant.

The bearing was unlovely, like everything that comes from a false position. It displeased the countess and injured Freyer, though she had herself placed him in this situation. It made him appear awkward and clownish.

When, with careless hand, we have damaged a work of art and perceive that instead of improving we have marred it, we do not blame ourselves, but the botched object, and the innocent object must suffer because we have spoiled our own pleasure in it. It is the same with the work of art of creation--a human being.

There are some natures which can never leave things undisturbed, but seek to gain a creative share in everything by attempts at shaping and when convinced that it would have been better had they left the work untouched, they see in the imperfect essay, not their own want of skill, but the inflexibility of the material, pronounce it not worth the labor bestowed--and cast it aside.

The countess had one of these natures, so unconsciously cruel in their artistic experiments, and her marred object was--Freyer.

Therefore his bearing did not, could not please her, and she allowed a glance of annoyance to rest upon him, which did not escape his notice. Passing him, she went to their son's bed.

There lay the "infant Christ," a boy six or seven years old with silken curls and massive brows, beneath whose shadow the closed eyes were concealed by dark-lashed lids. A single ray from the hanging lamp fell upon the forehead of the little Raphael, and showed the soft brows knit as if with unconscious pain.

The child was not happy--or not well--or both. He breathed heavily in his sleep, and there was a slight nervous twitching about the delicately moulded nostrils.

"He has evidently lost flesh since I was last here!" said the countess anxiously.

Freyer remained silent.

"What do you think?" asked the mother.

"What can I think? You have not seen the boy for so _long_ that you can judge whether he has altered far better than I."

"Joseph!" The beautiful woman drew herself up, and a look of genuine sorrow rested upon the pale, irritated countenance of her husband. "Whenever I come, I find nothing save bitterness and cutting words--open and secret reproaches. This is too much. Not even to-day, when I find my child ill, do you spare the mother's anxious heart. This is more than I can endure, it is ignoble, unchivalrous."

"Pardon me," replied her husband in a low tone, "I could not suppose that a mother who deserts her child for months could possibly possess so tender a nature that she would instantly grow anxious over a slight illness or a change in his appearance. I am a plain man, and cannot understand such contradictions!"

"Yes, from your standpoint you are right--in your eyes I must seem a monster of heartlessness. I almost do in my own. Yet, precisely because the reproach appears merited it cuts me so deeply, that is why it would be generous and noble to spare me! Oh! Freyer, what has become of the great divine love which once forgave my every fault?"

"It is where you have banished it, buried in the depths of my heart, as I am buried among these lonely mountains, silent and forgotten."

The countess, shaking her head, gazed earnestly at him. "Joseph, you see that I am suffering. You must see that it would be a solace to rest in your love, and you are ungenerous enough to humble my bowed head still more."

"I have no wish to humble you. But we can be generous only to those who need it. I see in the haughty Countess Wildenau a person who can exercise generosity, but not require it."

"Because you do not look into the depths of my heart, tortured with agonies of unrest and self-accusation?" As she spoke tears sprang to her eyes, and she involuntarily thought of the faithful, shrewd friend at home whose delicate power of perception had that very day spared her the utterance of a single word, and at one glance perceived all the helplessness of her situation.

True, the _latter_ was a man of the world whom the tinsel and glitter which surrounded her no longer had power to dazzle, and who was therefore aware how poor and wretched one can be in the midst of external magnificence.

The _former_--a man of humble birth, with the childish idea of the value of material things current among the common people, could not imagine that a person might be surrounded by splendor and luxury, play a brilliant part in society, and yet be unhappy and need consideration.

But, however, she might apologize for him, the very excuses lowered him still more in her eyes! Each of these conflicts seemed to widen the gulf between them instead of bridging it.

Such scenes, which always reminded her afresh of his lowly origin, did him more injury in her eyes than either of them suspected at the moment. They were not mere ebullitions of anger, which yielded to equally sudden reactions--they were not phases of passion, but the result of cool deliberation from the standpoint of the educated woman, which ended in hopeless disappointment.

The continual refrain: "You do not understand me!" with which the countess closed such discussions expressed the utter hopelessness of their mutu