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

"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