On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
as if the abrupt summons could not possibly be meant for _him_, moves
proudly on without glancing back a second time.
The servant timidly returns. A feeling of shame overwhelms the
countess, as though she had committed the blunder of ordering him to
address a person of high rank travelling incognito.
"The gentleman wouldn't hear me," says the lackey apologetically, much
abashed. "Very well," his mistress answers, glad that the darkness
conceals her blushes. A flash of lightning darts from the sky and a
sudden peal of thunder frightens the horses. "Drive on," the countess
commands; the lackey springs on the box, the carriage rolls forward--a
few yards further and the dark figure once more appears beside the
vehicle, walking calmly on amid the thunder and lightning, and merely
turns his head slightly toward the prancing horses.
The equipage dashes by--the countess leans silently back on the
cushions, and shows no further desire to look out.
"Tell me, Countess Madeleine," asks the gentleman whom she has just
addressed as 'Prince,' "what troubles you today?"
The countess laughs. "Dear me, how solemnly you put the question! What
should trouble me?"
"I cannot understand you," the prince continued. "You treat me coldly
and grow enthusiastic over a vision of the imagination which already
draws from you the exclamation: 'There he is _again!_' I cannot help
thinking what an uncertain possession is the favor of a lady whose
imagination kindles so easily."
"This is charming," the countess tried to jest. "My prince jealous--of
a phantom?"
"That is just it. If a _phantom_ can produce such variations in the
temperature of your heart toward me, how must my hopes stand?"
"Dear Prince, you know that whether with or without a phantom, I could
never yet answer this question which Your Highness frequently
condescends to ask me."
"I believe, Countess, that one always stands between us! You pursue
some unknown ideal which you do not find in me, the realist, who has
nothing to offer you save prosaic facts--his hand, his principality,
and an affection for which unhappily he lacks poetic phrases."
"You exaggerate, Prince, and are growing severe. There is a touch of
truth--I am always honest--yet, as you know, you are the most favored
of all my suitors. Still it is true that an unknown disputes precedence
with you. This rival is but the man of my imagination--but the world
contains no one like my ideal, so you have nothing to fear."
"What ideal do you demand, Countess, that no one can attain it?"
"Ah! a very simple one, yet you conventional natures will never
understand it. It is the simplicity of the lost Paradise to which you
can never return. I am by nature a lover of the ideal--I am
enthusiastic and need enthusiasm; but you call me a visionary when I am
in the most sacred earnest. I yearn for a husband who believes in my
ideal, I want no one from whom I must conceal it in order to avoid
ridicule, and thus be unable to be true to my highest self. He whom my
soul seeks must be at once a man and a child--a man in character and a
child in heart. But where in our modern life is such a person to be
found? Where is gentleness without feeble sentimentality? Where is
there enthusiasm without fantastic vagueness, where simplicity of heart
without narrowness of mind? Whoever possesses a manly character and a
strong intellect cannot escape the demands which science and politics
impose, and this detracts from the emotional life, gives prominent
development to concrete thought, makes men realistic and critical. But
of all who suffer from these defects of our time, you are the best,
Prince!" she adds, smilingly.'
"That is sorry comfort," murmurs the prince. "It is a peculiar thing to
have an invisible rival; who will guarantee that some person may not
appear who answers to the description?"
"That is the reason I have not yet given you my consent," replies the
countess, gravely.
Her companion sighs heavily, makes no reply, but gazes steadfastly into
the raging storm. Alter a time he says, softly, "If I did not love you
so deeply, Countess Madeleine--"
"You would not bear with me so long, would you?" asks the countess,
holding out her hand as if beseeching pardon.
This one half unconscious expression of friendship disarms the
irritated man.--He bends over the slender little hand and raises it
tenderly to his lips.
"She must yet be mine!" he says under his breath, by way of
consolation, like all men whose hopes are doubtful. "I will even dare
the battle with a phantom."
CHAPTER II.
OLD AMMERGAU.
At last, alter a long circuit and many enquiries, the goal was gained.
The dripping, sorely shaken equipage stopped with two wheels in a ditch
filled with rain water, whose overflow flooded the path to the house.
The courier and maid seemed to have missed their way, too, for the
second carriage was not there. People hurried out of the low doorway
shading small flickering candles with their hands. The countess shrank
back. What strange faces these peasants had! An old man with a terribly
hang-dog countenance, long grey hair, a pointed Jewish beard, sharp
hooked nose, and sparkling eyes! And two elderly women, one short and
fat, with prominent eyes and black curling hair, the other a tall,
thin, odd-looking person with tangled coal-black hair, hooked nose, and
glittering black eyes.
In the mysterious shadows cast by the wavering lights upon the sharply
cut faces, the whole group looked startlingly like a band of gypsies.
"Oh! are these Ammergau people?" whispered the countess in a
disappointed tone.
"Does Gross, the wood-carver, live here?" the prince enquired.
"Yes," was the reply. "Gross, the stone-cutter. Have you engaged rooms
here?"
"We wrote from Tegernsee for lodgings. The Countess von Wildenau,"
answered the prince.
"Oh yes, yes! Everything is ready! The lady will lodge with us; the
carriage and servants can go to the old post-house. I have the honor to
bid you good evening," said the old man. "I am sorry you have had such
bad weather. But we have a great deal of rain here."
The prince alighted--the water splashed high under his feet.
"Oh Sephi, bring a board, quick; the countess cannot get out here!"
cried the old man with eager deprecation of the discomfort threatening
the lady. Sephi, the tall, thin woman, dragged a plank from the garden,
while a one-eyed dog began to bark furiously.
The plank was laid down, but instantly sunk under the water, and the
countess was obliged to wade through the flood. As she alighted, she
felt as if she should strike her head against the edge of the
overhanging roof--the house was so low. Fresco paintings, dark with
age, appeared to stretch and writhe in distorted shapes in the
flickering light. The place seemed more and more dismal to the
countess.
"Shall I carry you across?" asked the prince.
"Oh no!" she answered reprovingly, while her little foot sought the
bottom of the pool. The ice-cold water covered her delicate boot to the
ankle. She had been so full of eager anticipation, in such a poetic
mood, and prosaic reality dealt her a blow in the face. She shivered as
she walked silently through the water.
"Come in, your rooms are ready," said the old man cheeringly.
They passed through a kitchen black with myriads of flies, into an
apartment formerly used as the workshop, now converted into a parlor.
Two children were asleep on an old torn sofa. In one corner lay sacks
of straw, prepared for couches, the owners of the house considered it a
matter of course that they should have no beds during the Passion. A
smoking kerosene lamp hung from, the dark worm-eaten wooden ceiling,
diffusing more smoke than light. The room was so low that the countess
could scarcely stand erect, and besides the ceiling had sunk--in the
dim, smoke-laden atmosphere the beams threatened to fall at any moment.
A sense of suffocation oppressed the new-comer. She was utterly
exhausted, chilled, nervous to the verge of weeping. Her white teeth
chattered. She shivered with cold and discomfort. Her host opened a low
door into a small room containing two beds, a table, an old-fashioned
dark cupboard, and two chairs.
"There," he cried in a tone of great satisfaction, "that is your
chamber. Now you can rest, and if you want anything, you need only call
and one of my daughters will come in and wait upon you."
"Yes, my good fellow, but where am _I_ to lodge?" asked the prince.
"Oh--then you don't belong together? In that case the countess must
sleep with another lady, and the gentleman up here."
He pointed to a little stair-case in the corner which, according to the
custom in old peasant houses, led from one room through a trap-door
into another directly above it.
"But I can't sleep _there_, it would inconvenience the lady," said the
prince. "Have you no other rooms?"
"Why yes; but they are engaged for to-morrow," replied Andreas Gross,
while the two sisters stood staring helplessly.
"Then give me the rooms and send the other people away."
"Oh! I can't do that, sir.--They are promised."
"Good Heavens! Ill pay you twice, ten times as much."
"Why, sir, if you paid me twenty times the price, I could not do it; I
must not break my promise!" said the old man with gentle firmness.
"Ah," thought the prince, "he wants to screw me--but I'll manage that,
Countess, excuse me a few minutes while I look for another lodging."
"For Heaven's sake, try to find one for me, too. I would rather spend
the night in the carriage than stay here!" replied the countess in
French.
"Yes, it is horrible! but it will not be difficult to find something
better. Good-bye!" he answered in the same language.
"Don't leave me alone with these people too long. Come back soon; I am
afraid," she added, still using the French tongue.
"Really?" the prince answered, laughing; but a ray of pleasure sparkled
in his eyes.
Meanwhile, the little girl who was asleep on the sofa had waked and now
came into the room.
The countess requested every one to retire that she might rest, and the
peasants modestly withdrew. But when she tried to fasten the door, it
had neither lock nor bolt, only a little wire hook which slipped into a
loose ring.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, startled. "I cannot lock it."
"You need have no anxiety," replied the old man soothingly, "we sleep
in the next room." But the vicinity of those strange people, when she
could not lock the door, was exactly what the countess feared.
She slipped the miserable wire hook into its fastening and sat down on
one of the beds, which had no mattresses--nothing but sacking.
Covering her face with her hands, she gave free course to indignant
tears. She still wore her hat and cloak, which she had not ventured to
take off, from a vague feeling of being encompassed by perils whence
she might need to fly at any moment. In such a situation, surely it was
safer not to lay aside one's wraps. If the worst came, she would remain
so all night. To go to bed in a house where the roof might fall and
such strange figures were stealing about, was too great a risk. Beside
the bed on which the countess sat was a door, which, amid all the
terrors, she had not noticed. Now it seemed as though she heard a
scraping noise like the filing of iron. Then came hollow blows and a
peculiar rattling. Horrible, incomprehensible sounds! Now a blow fell
upon the door, whose fastening was little better than the other. And
now another.
"The very powers of hell are let loose here," cried the countess,
starting up. Her cold, wet feet seemed paralyzed, her senses were on
the verge of failing. And she was alone in this terrible strait. Where