On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
other--Wildenau's will mentions only _a change of name_: you might
marry secretly--keep his name and with it his property."
"Papa!" exclaimed the countess--a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks,
but her eyes were fixed with intense anxiety upon the speaker--"I could
not expect that from a husband whom I esteemed and loved."
"Why not? If he could offer you no maintenance, he could not ask you to
sacrifice yours! Surely it would be enough if you gave him yourself."
"If he would accept me under such conditions,"' she answered,
thoughtfully.
"Aha--we are on the right track!" the prince reflected, watching her
keenly. "As soon as he perceived that there was no other possibility of
making you his--certainly! A woman like you can persuade a man to do
anything. I don't wish to be indiscreet, but, _ma fille_--I fear that
you have made a choice of which you cannot help being ashamed. Could
you think of forming such an alliance except in secret. If, that is,
you _must_ wed? What would the world say when rumor whispered:
'Countess Wildenau has sunk so low that she'--I dare not utter the
word, from the fear of offending you."
The countess sat with downcast eyes.
The world--! It suddenly stood before her with its mocking faces.
Should she expose her sacred love to its derision? Should she force the
noble simple-mannered man who was the salvation of her soul to play a
ridiculous part in the eyes of society, as the husband of the Countess
Wildenau? Her father was right--though from very different motives.
Could this secret which was too beautiful, too holy, to be confided to
her own father--endure the contact of the world?
"But how could a secret marriage be arranged?" she asked, with feigned
indifference.
Prince von Prankenberg was startled by the earnestness of the question.
Had matters gone so far? Caution was requisite here. Energetic
opposition could only produce the opposite result, perhaps a public
scandal. He reflected a moment while apparently toiling to puff rings
of smoke into the air, as if the world contained no task more
important. His daughter's eyes rested on him with suspicious keenness.
At last he seemed to have formed his plan.
"A secret marriage? Why, that is an easy matter for a woman of your
wealth and independent position! Is the person in question a Catholic?"
Madeleine silently nodded assent.
"Well--then the matter is perfectly simple. Follow the example of
Manzoni's _promessi sposi_, with whom we are sufficiently tormented
while studying Italian. Go with your chosen husband to the pastor and
declare before him, in the presence of two witnesses, who can easily be
found among your faithful servants, that you take each other in
marriage. According to the rite of the Catholic church, it is
sufficient to constitute a valid marriage, if both parties make this
declaration, even without the marriage ceremonial, in the presence of
an ordained priest--your ordained priest in this case would be our old
pastor at Prankenberg. You can play the farce best there. You will thus
need no papers, no special license, which might betray you, and if you
manage cleverly you will succeed in persuading the decrepit old man not
to enter the marriage in the church register. Then let any one come
and say that you are married! There will be absolutely no proof--and
when the old pastor dies the matter will go down to the grave with him!
You will choose witnesses on whom you can depend. What risk can there
be?"
"Father! But will that be a marriage?" cried the countess in horror.
"Not according to _our_ ideas," said the prince, laconically: "But the
point is merely that _he_ shall consider himself married, and that _he_
shall be bound--not you?"
"Father--I will not play such a farce!" She turned away with loathing.
"If you are in earnest--there will be no farce, _ma chere_! It will
rest entirely with you whether you regard yourself as married or not.
In the former case you will have the pleasant consciousness of a moral
act without its troublesome consequences--can go on a journey after the
pseudo wedding, roam through foreign lands with a reliable maid, and
then return perhaps with one or two 'adopted' children, whom, as a
philanthropist, you will educate and no one can discover anything. The
anonymous husband may be installed by the Countess Wildenau under some
title on one of her distant estates, and the marriage will be as happy
as any--only less prosaic! But you will thus spare yourself an endless
scandal in the eyes of society, keep your pastoral dream, and yet
remain the wealthy and powerful Countess Wildenau. Is not that more
sensible than in Heaven knows what rhapsody to sacrifice honor,
position, wealth, and--your old father?"
"My father?" asked the countess, who had struggled with the most
contradictory emotions while listening to the words of the prince.
"Why yes"--he busied himself again with his cigar, which he was now
obliged to exchange for another, "You know, _chere enfant_, the duties
of our position impose claims upon families of princely rank, which,
unfortunately, my finances no longer allow me to meet. I--h'm--I find
myself compelled--unpleasant as it is--to appeal to my daughter's
kindness--may I use one of these soap dishes as an ash-receiver? So I
have come to ask whether, for the sake of our ancient name--I expect no
childish sentimentality--whether you could help me with an additional
sum of some fifty thousand marks annually, and ninety thousand to
be paid at once--otherwise nothing is left for me--a light,
please--_merci_--except to put a bullet through my head!" He paused to
light the fresh cigar. The countess clasped her hands in terror.
"Good Heavens, Papa! Are the sums Wildenau gave you already exhausted?"
"What do you mean--can a Prince Prankenberg live on an income of fifty
thousand marks? If I had not been so economical, and we did not live in
the quiet German style, I could not have managed to make such a trifle
hold out so _long_!"
"A trifle! Then I was sold so cheaply?" cried Madeleine Wildenau with
passionate emotion. "I have not even, in return for my wasted life, the
consciousness of having saved my father? Yes, yes, if this is true--I
am no longer free to choose! I shall remain to the end of my days the
slave of my dead husband, and must steal the happiness for which
I long like forbidden fruit. You have chosen the moment for this
communication well--it must be true! You have destroyed the first
blossom of my life, and now, when it would fain put forth one last bud,
you blight that, too."
The prince rose. "I regret having caused you any embarrassment by my
affairs. As I said, you are your own mistress. If I did not put a
bullet through my head long ago, it was purely out of consideration for
you, that the world might not say: 'Prince von Prankenberg shot himself
on account of financial embarrassment because his wealthy daughter
would not aid him!' I wished to save you this scandal--that is why I
gave you the choice of helping me if you preferred to do so."
The countess shuddered. "You know that such threats are not needed! If
I wept, it was not for the sake of the paltry money, but all the
unfortunate circumstances. How can I ever be happy, even in a secret
marriage, if I am constantly compelled to dread discovery for my
father's sake? If it were for a father impoverished by misfortune,
the tears shed for my sacrifice of happiness would be worthy of
execration--but, Papa, to be compelled to sacrifice the holiest feeling
that ever thrilled a human heart for gambling, race-courses, and the
women of doubtful reputation who consume your property--that is hard
indeed!"
"Spare your words, _ma fille_, I am not disposed to purchase your help
at the cost of a lecture. Either you will relieve me from my
embarrassments without reproaches, or you will be the daughter of a
suicide--what is the use of all this philosophizing? A lofty unsullied
name is a costly article! Make your choice. _I_ for my own part set
little value on life. I am old, a victim to the gout, have grown too
stiff to ride or enjoy sport of any kind, have lost my luck with
women--there is nothing left but gambling. If I must give that
up, too, then _rogue la galere_! In such a case, there are but two
paths--_corriger la fortune_--or die. But a Prankenberg would rather
die &an to take the former."
"Father! What are you saying! Alas, that matters have gone so far! Woe
betide a society that dismisses an old man from its round of pleasures
so bankrupt in every object, every dignity, that no alternative remains
save suicide or cheating at the gaming-table--unless he happens, by
chance, to have a wealthy daughter!"
"My beloved child!" said the prince, who now found it advisable to
adopt a tone of pathos.
"Pray, say no more, Father. You have never troubled yourself about your
daughter, have never been a father to me--if you had, you would not now
stand before me so miserable, so poor in happiness. This is past
change. Alas, that I cannot love and respect my father as I ought--that
I cannot do what I am about to do more gladly. Yet I am none the less
ready to fulfill my duties towards you. So far as lies in my power, I
will afford you the possibility of continuing your pitiful life of
shams, and leave it to your discretion how far you draw upon my income.
It is fortunate that you came in time--in a few days it might have been
too late. I see now that I must not give up my large income so long as
my father needs the money. My dreams of a late, but pure happiness are
shattered! You will understand that one needs time to recover from such
a blow and pardon my painful excitement."
She rose, with pallid face and trembling limbs: "I will place the
papers necessary to raise the money in your hands early to-morrow
morning, and you will forget this painful scene sooner than I."
"You have paid me few compliments--but I shall bear no malice--you are
nervous to-day, my fair daughter. And even if you do not bestow your
aid in the most generous way, nevertheless you help me. Let me kiss
your liberal hand! Ah, it is exactly like your mother's. When I think
that those slender, delicate fingers have been laid in the coarse fist
of Heaven knows what plebeian, I think great credit is due me--"
"Do not go on!" interrupted the countess, imperiously. "I think I have
done my duty, Papa--but the measure is full, and I earnestly entreat
you to let me rest to-day."
"It is the fate of fathers to let their daughters rule them," replied
the prince in a jesting tone. "Well, it is better to be ill-treated by
a daughter than by a sweetheart. You see I, too, have some moral
impulses, since I have been in your strict society. May the father whom
you judge so harshly be permitted to kiss your forehead?"
The countess silently submitted--but a shudder ran through her frame as
if the touch had defiled her. She felt that it was the Judas kiss of
the world, not the caress of a father.
The prince wiped his mouth with a sensation of secret disgust. "Who
knows what lips have touched that brow today?" He dared not think of
it, or it would make him ill.
"_Ma chere_, however deeply I am indebted to you, I must assert my
paternal rights a few minutes. You have said so many bitter things,
whose justice I will not deny, that you will permit me to utter a few
truthful words also." Fixing his eyes upon her with a stern, cold gaze,
he said in a low tone, placing a marked emphasis on every word: "We
have carried matters very far--you and I--the last of the ancient
Prankenberg race! A pretty pair! the father a bankrupt, and the
daughter--on the eve of marrying a peasant."
Madeleine von Wildenau, deadly pale, stood leaning with compressed lips
on the back of her armchair.