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