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