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

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