On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
behind, into the open country. Few people were at work, for during the
Passion there is rarely time to till the fields.
"There he is!" Ludwig pointed to a man swinging his scythe with a
powerful arm. The countess had dreaded the sight, yet now stood
watching full of admiration, for these movements were as graceful as
his gestures. The natural symmetry which was one of his characteristic
qualities rendered him a picturesque figure even here, while toiling in
the fields. His arms described rhythmically returning circles so
smoothly, the poise of the elastic body, bending slightly forward, was
so noble, and he performed the labor so easily that it seemed like a
graceful gymnastic exercise for the training of the marvellous limbs.
The countess gazed at him a long time, unseen.
A woman's figure, bearing a jug, approached from the opposite side of
the meadow and offered Freyer a drink. "I have brought some milk. You
must be thirsty, it is growing warm," the countess heard her say. She
was a gracious looking woman, clad in simple country garb, evidently
somewhat older than Freyer, but with a noble, virginal bearing and
features of classic regularity. Every movement was dignified, and her
expression was calm and full of kindly earnestness.
"I ought to know her," said the countess in a strangely sharp tone.
"Certainly. She is the Mother of God in the Passion Play, Anastasia
Gross, the burgomaster's sister."
"Yes, the Mary!" said the countess, and again she remembered how the
two, mother and son, had remained clasped in each other's arms far
longer than seemed to her necessary. What unknown pang was this which
now pierced her heart? "I suppose they are betrothed?" she asked, with
quickened breath.
"Who can tell? We think she loves him, but no one knows Freyer's
feelings!" said Ludwig.
"I don't understand, since you are such intimate friends, why you
should not know!"
"I believe, Countess, if we people of Ammergau have any good quality,
it is discretion. We do not ask even the most intimate friend anything
which he does not confide to us."
Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes in confusion. After a short
struggle she said with deadly sternness and bitterness: "You were right
this morning--the man must be left _in his sphere_. Come, let us go
back!" A glance from Ludwig's eyes pierced her to the heart. She turned
back toward the village. But Freyer had already seen her and overtook
her with the speed of thought.
"Why, Countess, you here? And"--his eyes, fierce with pain, rested
enquiringly on hers as he perceived their cold expression, "and you
were going to leave me without a word of greeting? Were you ashamed to
speak to the poor peasant who was mowing his grass? Or did my dress
shock you?" He was so perfectly artless that he did not even interpret
her indignation correctly, but attributed it to an entirely different
cause. This did not escape the keen intuition of a woman so thoroughly
versed in affairs of the heart. But when a drop of the venom of
jealousy has entered the blood, it requires some time ere it is
absorbed, even though the cause of the mischief has long been removed.
This is an old experience, as well as the fact that, this process once
over, repentance is all the sweeter, love the more passionate. But the
poor simple-hearted peasant, in his artlessness, could not perceive all
this. He was merely ashamed of standing before the countess in his
shirt sleeves and hurriedly endeavored, with trembling fingers, to
fasten his collar which he had opened while at work, baring his throat
and chest. It seemed as if the hot blood could be heard pulsing against
the walls of his arched chest, like the low murmur of the sea. The
labor, the increasing heat of the sun, and the excitement of the
countess' presence had quickened the usually calm flow of his blood
till it fairly seethed in his veins, glowing in roseate life through
the ascetic pallor of the skin, while the swelling veins stood forth in
a thousand beautiful waving lines like springs welling from white
stone. Both stood steeped in the fervid warmth, one absorbing, the
other reflecting it.
But with the cruelty of love, which seeks to measure the strength of
responsive passion by the very pain it has the power to inflict, the
beautiful woman curbed the fire kindled in her own pulses and said
carelessly: "We have interrupted your tete-a-tete, we will make amends
by retiring."
"Countess!" he exclaimed with a look which seemed to say: "Is it
possible that you can be so unjust! My _Mother_, Mary, was with me, she
brought her son something to refresh him at his work, why should you
interrupt us?"
The simple words, which to her had so subtle a double meaning,
explained everything and Madeleine von Wildenau felt, with deep
embarrassment, that he understood her and that she must appear very
petty in his eyes.
Ludwig Gross drew out his watch. "Excuse me, it is nine o'clock; I must
go to my drawing-school." He bowed and left them, without shaking hands
with the countess as usual. She felt it as a rebuke, and a voice in her
heart said: "You must become a far better woman ere you are worthy of
this man."
"Would not you like to know Mary? May I introduce her to you?" asked
Freyer, when they were alone.
"Oh, it is not necessary."
"Why, how can you love the son and not care for the mother?"
"She is _not_ your mother," replied the countess.
"And _I_ am not the Christ. Why does the illusion affect me, and not
Mary?"
"Because it was perfect in you, but not in her."
"Then there is still more reason to know her, that her personality may
complete what her personation lacked."
The countess cast a gloomy look at the tall maiden, who meanwhile had
taken the scythe and was doing Freyer's work.
"She seems to be very devoted to you," she said suspiciously.
"Yes, thank Heaven, we are loyal friends."
"I suppose you call each other thou."
"Yes, all the Ammergau people do that, when they have been
schoolmates."
"That is a strange custom. Is it practised by those in both high and
low stations?"
"There are neither high nor low stations among us. We all stand on the
same footing, Countess. The fact that one is richer, another poorer,
that one can do more for education and external appearances than his
neighbor makes no difference with us and, if it did, it would be an
honor for me to be permitted to address Anastasia with the familiar
thou, for she and the whole Gross family are far above me. Even in your
sense of the word, Countess, the burgomaster is an aristocrat, no child
of nature like myself, but a man familiar with social usages and
thoroughly well educated."
"Well, then," cried the countess, "why don't you marry the lady, if she
possesses such superior advantages?"
"Marry?" Freyer started back as if instead of Madeleine's beautiful
face he had suddenly beheld some hideous vision, "I have never thought
of it!"
"Why not?"
"The Christ wed Mary? The son the mother? No, though we are not what we
represent, _that_ would be impossible. I have become so accustomed to
regard her as my mother that it would seem to me a profanation."
"But next winter, when the Play is over, it will be different."
"And _you_ say this to me, Countess; _you_, after this morning?" cried
Freyer, with a trembling voice. "Are you in earnest?"
"Certainly. I cannot expect you, for my sake, to neglect older claims
upon your heart!"
"Countess, if I had older claims, would I have spoken to you as I did
to-day, would the events have occurred which happened to-day? Can you
believe such things of me? You are silent? Well, Countess, that may be
the custom in your circle, but not in mine."
"Forgive me, Freyer!" stammered the lady, turning pale.
"Freyer shaded his eyes with his hand as if the sun dazzled him, in
order to conceal his rising tears.
"For what are you looking?" asked the countess, who thought he was
trying to see more distinctly.
He turned his face, eloquent with pain, full toward her. "I was looking
to see where my dove had flown, I can no longer find her. Or was it all
a dream?"
"Freyer!" cried the countess, utterly overwhelmed, slipping her hand
through his arm and resting her head without regard for possible
spectators on his heaving breast. "Joseph, your dove has not flown
away, she is here, take her to your heart again and keep her forever,
forever, if you wish."
"Take care, Countess," said Freyer, warningly, "there are people moving
in all directions."
She raised her head. "Will it cause you any harm?" she asked, abashed.
"Not me, but you. I have no one to question me and could only be proud
of your tokens of favor, but consider what would be said in your own
circle, if it were rumored that you had rested your head on a peasant's
breast."
"You are no peasant, you are an artist."
"In your eyes, but not in those of the world. Even though we do
passably well in wood-carving and in the Passion Play, so long as we
are so poor that we are compelled to till our fields ourselves, and
bring the wood for our carvings from the forest with our own hands, we
shall be ranked as peasants, and no one will believe that we are
anything else. You will be blamed for having associated with such
uncultured people."
"Oh, I will answer for that before the whole world."
"That would avail little, my beloved one, Heaven forbid that I should
ever so far forget myself as to boast of your love before others, or
permit you to do anything which they would misjudge. God alone
understands what we are to each other, and therefore it must remain
hidden in His bosom where no profane eye can desecrate it."
The countess clung closer to him in silent admiration. She remembered
so many annoyances caused by the indiscretions due to the vanity of men
whom she had favored, that this modest delicacy seemed so chivalrous
and lofty that she would fain have fallen at his feet.
"Dove, have I found you again?" he said, gazing into her eyes. "My
sweet, naughty dove! You will never more wound and wrong me so. I feel
that you might break my heart" And pressing her arm lightly to his
side, he raised her hand to his burning lips.
A glow of happiness filled Madeleine von Wildenau's whole being as she
heard the stifled, passionate murmur of love. And as, with every
sunbeam, the centifolia blooms more fully, revealing a new beauty with
each opening petal, so too did the soul of the woman thus illumined by
the divine ray of true love.
"Come," she said suddenly, "take me to the kind creature who so
tenderly ministers to you, perhaps suffers for you. I now feel drawn
toward her and will love her for your sake as your mother, Mary."
"Ah, my child, that is worthy of you! I knew that you were generous and
noble! Come, my Magdalene, I will lead you to Mary."
They walked rapidly to the field where Anastasia was busily working.
The latter, seeing the stranger approach, let down the skirt she had
lifted and adjusted her dress a little, but she received the countess
without the least embarrassment and cordially extended her hand. _Her_
bearing also had a touch of condescension, which the great lady
especially noticed. Anastasia gazed so calmly and earnestly at her that
she lowered her eyes as if unable to bear the look of this serene soul.
The smoothly brushed brown hair, the soft indistinctly marked brows,
the purity of the features, and the virginal dignity throned on the
noble forehead harmonized with the ideal of the Queen of Heaven which
the countess had failed to grasp in the Passion Play. She was
beautiful, faultless from head to foot, yet there was nothing in her
appearance which could arouse the least feeling of jealousy. There was
such spirituality in her whole person--something--the countess could