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