On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
pledge, but our marriage must be a secret one."
"And why?"
"My husband's will disinherits me, as soon as I give up the name of
Wildenau. If I marry you, I shall be dependent upon the generosity of
my husband's cousins, who succeed me as his heirs, and they are not
even obliged to give me an annuity--so I shall be little better than a
beggar."
"Oh, is that all? What does it matter? Am I not able to support my
wife--that is, if she can be satisfied with the modest livelihood a
poor wood-carver like myself can offer?"
The countess, deeply touched, smiled. "I knew that you would say so.
But, my angel, that would only do, if I had no other duties. But, you
see, this is one of the snares with which the world draws back those
who endeavor to escape its spell. I have a father--an unhappy man whom
I can neither respect nor love--a type of the brilliant misery, the
hollow shams, to which so many lives in our circle fall victims, a
gambler, a spendthrift, but still _my father_! He asks pecuniary aid
which I can render only if I remain the Countess Wildenau. Dare I be
happy and let my father go to ruin?"
"No!" groaned Freyer, whose head sank like a felled tree on the arms
which rested folded on the table.
"Then what is left to us--my beloved, save _separation_ or a secret
marriage? Surely we would not profane the miracle which God has wrought
in us by any other course?"
"No--never!"
"Well--then I must say to you: 'choose!'"
"Oh, Heaven! this is terrible. I must not be allowed to assert my
sacred rights before men--must live like a dishonored man under ban?
And _where_ and _when_ could we meet?"
"Joseph--I can offer you the position of steward of my estates, which
will enable us to live together constantly and meet without the least
restraint. I can recompense you a hundredfold, for what you resign
here, my property shall be yours, as well as all that I am and
have--you shall miss nothing save outward appearances, the triumph of
appearing before the world as the husband of the Countess Wildenau."
"Oh! God, Thou art my witness that no such thought ever entered my
heart. If you were poor and miserable, starving by the wayside, I would
raise you and bear you proudly in my arms into my house. If you were
blind and lame, ill and deserted, I would watch and cherish you day and
night--nay, it would be my delight to work for you and earn, by my own
industry, the bread you eat. When I brought it, I would offer it on my
knees and kiss your dear hands for accepting it. But your servant, your
hireling, I cannot be! Tell me yourself--could you still love me if I
were?"
"Yes, for my love is eternal!"
"Do not deceive yourself; you have loved me as a poor, but _free_
citizen of Ammergau--as your paid servant you would despise me."
"You shall not be my servant--it is merely necessary to find some
pretext before the world which will render it possible for us to be
constantly together without exciting suspicion--and the office of a
steward is this pretext!"
"Twist and turn it as you will--I shall eat your bread, and be your
subordinate. Oh, Heaven, I was so proud and am now so terribly
humiliated--so suddenly hurled from the height to which you had raised
me!"
"It will be no humiliation to accept what my love bestows and my
superabundance shares with you."
"It _is_, and I could be your husband only on the condition that I
might continue to work and earn my own support."
"Oh! the envious arrogance of the poor, who grudge the rich the noblest
privilege--that of doing good. Believe me, true pride would be to say
to yourself that your noble nature a thousand times outweighed the
petty sacrifice of worldly goods which I could make for you. He who
scorns money can accept it from others because he knows that the
outward gift is valueless, compared with the treasures of happiness
love can offer. Or do you feel so poor in love that you could not pay
me the trivial debt for the bit of bread I furnished? Then indeed--let
me with my wealth languish in my dearth of happiness and boast that you
sacrificed to your pride the most faithful of women--but do not say
that you loved the woman!"
"My dove!"
"I am doing what I can!" she continued, mournfully, "I am offering you
myself, my soul, my freedom, my future--and you are considering whether
it will not degrade you to eat my bread and be apparently my servant,
while in reality you are my master and my judge.--I have nothing more
to say, you shall have your will, but decide quickly, for what is to be
done must be done at once. My father himself (when he perceived that I
really intended to marry) advised me to be wedded by our old pastor at
Prankenberg. But I know my father, and am aware that he was only luring
me into a trap. He will receive from me to-morrow a power of attorney
to raise some money he needs--the day after he will invent some new
device to keep me in his power. We must take the pastor at Prankenberg
by surprise before he can prevent it. Now decide!"
"Omnipotent God!" exclaimed Freyer. "What shall I, what must I do? Oh!
my love, I ought not to desert you--and even if I ought--I _could_ not,
for I could no longer live without you! You know that I must take what
you offer, and that my fate will be what you assign! But, dearest, how
I shall endure to be your husband and yet regarded as your servant, I
know not. If you could let this cup pass from me, it would be far
better for us both."
"And did God spare the Saviour the cup? Was Christ too proud to take
upon Him His cross and His ignominy, while you--cannot even bear the
yoke your wife imposes, is _forced_ to impose?"
He bowed his head to the earth. Tears sparkled in his radiant eyes, he
was once more the Christ. As his dark eyes rested upon her in the dim
light diffused by the lamp, with all the anguish of the Crucified
Redeemer, Madeleine von Wildenau again felt a thrill of awe in the
presence of something supernatural--a creature belonging to some middle
realm, half spirit, half mortal--and the perception that he could never
belong wholly to the earth, never wholly to _her_. She could not
explain this feeling, he was so kind, so self-sacrificing. Had she had
any idea that such a man was destined to absorb _us_, not we _him_, the
mystery would have been solved. What she was doing was precisely the
reverse. His existence must be sacrificed to hers--and she had a vague
suspicion that this was contrary to the laws of his noble, privileged
nature.
But he, unconscious of himself, in his modest simplicity, only knew
that he must love the countess to the end--and deemed it only just that
he should purchase the measureless happiness of calling this woman his
by an equally boundless sacrifice. The appeal to Christ had suddenly
made him believe that God proposed to give him the opportunity to
continue in life the part of a martyr which he was no longer permitted
to play on the stage. The terrible humiliation imposed by the woman
whom he loved was to be the cross received in exchange for the one he
had resigned.
"Very well, then, for the sake of Christ's humility!" he said, sadly,
as if utterly crushed. "Give me whatever position you choose, but I
fear you will discover too late that you have robbed yourself of the
_best_ love I have to bestow. Your nature is not one which can love a
vassal. You will be like the children who tear off the butterfly's
wings and then--throw aside the crawling worm with loathing. My wings
were my moral freedom and my self-respect. At this moment I have lost
them, for I am only a weak, love-sick man who must do whatever an
irresistible woman requires. It is no free moral act, as is usual when
a man exchanges an equal existence with his chosen wife.
"If you think _that_, Joseph," said the countess, turning pale, "it
will certainly be better--for me to leave you." She turned with dignity
toward the door.
"Yes, go!" he cried in wild anguish--"go! Yet you know that you will
take me with you, like the crown of thorns you dragged caught in the
hem of your dress!" He threw himself on his knees at her feet. "What am
I? Your slave. In Heaven's name, be my mistress and take me. I place my
soul in your keeping--I trust it to your generosity--but woe betide us
both, if you do not give me yours in return. I ask nothing save your
soul--but that I want wholly."
The exultant woman clasped him in a passionate embrace: "Yes, give
yourself a prisoner to me, and trust your fate to my hands. I will be a
gentle mistress to you--you, beloved slave, you shall not be _more_
mine than I am yours--that is, _wholly_ and _forever_."
CHAPTER XVII.
FLYING FROM THE CROSS.
The burgomaster went to the office every morning at six o'clock, for
the work to be accomplished during the day was very great and required
an early beginning. Freyer usually arrived about seven to share the
task with him. On Fridays, however, he often commenced his labor before
the energetic burgomaster. It was on that day that the rush upon the
ticket office began, and every one's hands were filled.
But to-day Freyer seemed to be in no hurry. It was after seven--he
ought to have arrived long before. He had been absent yesterday, too.
The stranger must have taken complete possession of him. The
burgomaster shook his head--Freyer's conduct since the countess'
arrival, had not pleased him. He had never neglected his duties
to the community. And at the very time when the Passion Play had
attained unprecedented success. How could any one think of anything
else--anything _personal_, especially the man who took the part of the
Christ! There were heaps of orders lying piled before him, how could
they be disposed of, if Freyer did not help.
This countess was a beautiful woman--and probably a fascinating one.
But to the burgomaster there was but _one_ beauty--that of the angel of
his home. High above the turmoil of the crowd, in quiet, aristocratic
seclusion, the lonely man sat at his desk in his bare, plain office.
But the angel of Ammergau visited him here; he leaned his weary head
upon His breast, _His_ kiss rewarded his unselfish labor, _His_
radiance illumined the unassuming citizen. No house was so poor and
insignificant that at this season the angel of Ammergau did not take up
His abode within and shed upon it His own sanctity and dignity. But to
him who was the personification of Ammergau, the man who was obliged to
care for everything--watch over everything--bear the responsibility
of everything, to him the angel brought the reward which men cannot
give--the proud consciousness of what he was to his home in these
toilsome days. But it was quite time that Freyer should come! The
burgomaster rang his bell. The bailiff entered.
"Kleinhofer, see where Herr Freyer is--or the drawing-master. _One_ of
them can surely be found."
"Yes, Herr Burgomaster." The man left the room.
The burgomaster leaned back in his chair to wait. His eyes rested a few
seconds on one of Dore's pictures, Christ condemned by Pontius Pilate.
He involuntarily compared the engraving with the grouping on the stage.
"Ah, if we could do that! If living beings, with massive bones and
clumsy joints, would be as pliable as canvas and brushes!" he thought,
sorrowfully. "Wherever human beings are employed there must be defects
and imperfections. Perfection, absolute beauty, exist only in the
imagination! Yet ought not an inflexible stage manager, by following
the lines of the work of art, to succeed in shaping even the rudest
material into the artistic idea."
"Much--much remains to be done," said the singular stage manager in
pitiless self-criticism, resting his head on his hand. "When one thinks
of what the Meininger company accomplishes! But of course they work