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

behind by her companions who had fled from the first sunbeams, and now stood terrified, vainly striving to conceal herself in darkness. "Poor wandering sprite, where is the home your tearful eyes are seeking?" said the prince, overwhelmed by pity as he saw the grief-worn face. "Yes, Madeleine, you are too beautiful for the broad glare of day. Such visions suit the veil of evening--the magical lustre of drawing-rooms! By day one feels as if the night had been robbed of an elf, who having lost her wings by the morning light was compelled to stay among common mortals." Carried away by an outburst of feeling, he approached her with open arms. A strange conflict of emotion was seething in her breast. She had longed for him, as for the culture she had despised--she felt that she could not live without him, that without him she could not exorcise the spirits she had conjured up to destroy her, her ear listened with rapture to the expression of love in cultured language, but when he strove to approach her--it seemed as if that unapproachable something which had cried "Noli me tangere!" had established its throne in her own heart since she had knelt among the beggars early that morning, and now, in spite of herself, cried in its solemn dignity from her lips the "Noli me tangere" to another. And, without words, the duke understood it, respected her mute denial, and reverently drew back a step. "Do you not wish to change your dress, you are utterly exhausted. If it will be a comfort to you to have me stay, I will wait till you have regained your strength. Then I will beg permission to breakfast with you!" he said with his wonted calmness. "Yes, I thank you!" she answered--with a two-fold meaning, and left the room with a bearing more dignified than the duke had ever seen, as though she had an invisible companion of whom she was proud. CHAPTER XXIV. ATTEMPTS TO RESCUE. The countess remained absent a long time, while the duke sat at the window of the boudoir gazing out into the frosty winter morning, but without seeing what was passing outside. Before him lay a shattered happiness, a marred destiny. The happiness was his, the destiny hers. "There is surely nothing weaker than a woman--even the strongest!" he thought, shaking his head mournfully. Ought we not to punish this personator of Christ, who used his mask to break into the citadel of our circle and steal what did not belong to him? Pshaw, how could the poor fellow help it if an eccentric woman out of ennui--ah, no, we should not think of it! But--what is to be done now? Shall I sacrifice this superb creature to an insipid prejudice, because she sacrificed herself and everything else to a childish delusion? Where is the man pure enough to condemn you because when you give, you give wholly, royally, and in your proud self-forgetfulness fling what others would outweigh with kingly crowns into the lap of a beggar who can offer you nothing in exchange, not even appreciation of your value--which he is too uncultured to perceive. "Alas! such a woman--to be thrown away on such a man! And should I not save her? Should I weakly desert her--I, the only person who can forgive because I am the only one who _understands_ her?--No! It would be against all the logic of destiny and reason, were I to suffer such a life to be wrecked by this religious humbug. What is the use of my cool brain, if I lose my composure _now_? _Allons donc_! I will bid defiance to fate and to every prejudice, clasp her in my arms, and destroy the divine farce!" Such was the train of the duke's thoughts. But his pale face and joyless expression betrayed what he would not acknowledge to himself: that his happiness was shattered. He gathered up the fragments and tried to join them together--but with the secret grief with which we bear home some loved one who could not be witheld from a dangerous path, knowing that, though the broken limbs may be healed, he can never regain his former strength. "So grave, Duke?" asked a voice which sent the blood to his heart. The countess had entered--her step unheard on the soft carpet. He started up: "Madeleine--my poor Madeleine! I was thinking of you and your fate!" "I have saddened you!" she said, clasping her hands penitently. "Oh, no!" he drew the little hands down to his lips, and with a sorrowful smile kissed them. "My cheerfulness can bear some strain--but the malapert must be permitted to be silent sometimes when there are serious matters to be considered." "You are too noble to let me feel that you are suffering. Yet I see it--you would not be the man you are if you did not suffer to-day." The duke bit his lips, it seemed as if he were struggling to repress a tear: "Pshaw--we won't be sentimental! You have wept enough to-day! The world must not see tear-stains on your face. Give me a cup of coffee--I do not belong to the chosen few whom a mortal emotion raises far above all the needs of their mortal husk." The countess rang for breakfast. The servant brought the dishes ordered into the boudoir, as the dining-room was not yet thoroughly heated. In the chimney-corner beside the blazing fire the coffee was already steaming in a silver urn over an alcohol lamp, filling the cosy room with its aroma and musical humming. "How pleasant this is!" said the duke, throwing himself into an armchair beside the grave mistress of the house. "I will pour it myself," she said to the servant who instantly withdrew. The countess was now simply dressed in black, without an ornament of any kind, and with her hair confined in a plain knot. "What a contrast!" the duke remarked, smiling--"you alone are capable of such metamorphoses. Half an hour ago in a court costume, glittering with diamonds, an aching heart, and hands half frozen from being clasped in prayer in the chilled church, now a demure little housewife, peacefully watching the coffee steam in a cosy little room, waiting intently for the moment when the water will boil, as if there were no task in the whole world more important than that of making a good decoction." A faint smile glided over the countess' face--she had nearly allowed the important moment to pass. Now she poured out the coffee, extinguished the spirit lamp, and handed her companion a cup of the steaming beverage. "A thousand thanks! Ah, that's enough to brighten the most downcast mood! What comfort! Now let us enjoy an hour of innocent, genuine plebeian happiness. Ah--how fortunate the people are who live so every day. I should be the very man to enjoy such bliss!" His glance wandered swiftly to the countess' empty cup. "Aha! I thought so! A great sorrow must of course be observed by mortifying the body, in order to be sure to succumb to it. Well, then the guest must do the honors of the hostess! There, now _ma chere Madeleine_ will drink this, and dip this buscuit into it! One can accomplish that, even without an appetite. Who would wish to make heart and stomach identical!" The countess, spite of her protestations, was forced to obey. She saw that the duke had asked for breakfast only to compel her to eat. "There. You see that it can be done. I enjoy with a touch of emotion this coffee which your dear hands have prepared. If you would do the same with the cup I poured out what a sentimental breakfast it would be!" A ray of the old cheerfulness sparkled in the duke's eyes. "Ah, I knew that with you alone I should find peace and cheer!" said the countess, brightening. "So much the better." The duke lighted a cigarette and leaned comfortably back in his chair. The countess ordered the coffee equipage to be removed and then sat down opposite to him with her hands clasped in her lap. "The main point now, my dear Madeleine, if I may be allowed to speak of these things to you, is to release you from the cause of all the trouble--I need not name him. Of course I do not know how easy or how difficult this may be, because I am ignorant how far you are involved in this relation and unfortunately lack the long locks of the Christ, which would enable me successfully to play the part of the 'Good Shepherd,' who freed the imprisoned lamb from the thicket." "As if it depended on that!" said the countess. "Not at all? Oh, women, women! What will not a few raven locks do? The destiny of your lives turns upon just such trifles. Imagine that Ammergau Christus with close-cropped hair and a bristling red beard! Would that mask have suited the illusion to which you sacrificed yourself? Hardly!" The countess made no reply, silenced by the pitiless truth, but at last she thought she must defend herself. "And the religious impression, the elevation, the enthusiasm--the revelations of the Passion Play, do you count these nothing?" "Certainly not! I felt them myself, but, believe me, you would not have transferred them to the person, if the representative of Christ had worn a wig, and the next day had appeared before you with stiff, closely-cropped red hair." The countess made a gesture of aversion. "There, now you see the realist again. Yet, say what you will, a few locks of raven hair formed the net in which the haughty, clever Countess Wildenau was prisoned!" "You may be right, the greatest picture consists of details, and may be spoiled by a single one. I will confess it--Yes! The harmony of the whole person, down to the most trifling detail, with the Christ tradition, enthralled me, and had the locks been wanting, the impression would not have been complete. But, however I may have been deceived in the image, I cannot let myself and him sink so low in your opinion as to permit you to believe that it was nothing save an ensnaring outward semblance which sealed my fate! Had not his spiritual nature completed the illusion--matters would never have gone so far." "Yes, yes, I can imagine how it happened. You prompted the part, and he had skill enough to play to the prompter, as it is called in the parlance of the stage." "'Skill' is not the right word, he was influenced precisely as I was." "Ah! He probably would not have been so foolish as to refuse such a chance. A wealthy, beautiful woman--like you--" "No, no, do not speak of him in that way. I cannot let that accusation rest upon him. He is not base! He is uncultured, has the narrow-minded views of a peasant, is sensitive and capricious, an unfortunate temperament, with which it is impossible to live happily--but I know no one in the world, to whom any ignoble thought is more alien." The prince gazed at her admiringly. Tears were sparkling in her eyes. "I don't deny that I am bitterly disappointed in him--but though I love him no longer, I must not allow him to be insulted. He loved me and sacrificed his poor life for mine--that the compensation did not outweigh the price was no fault of his, and I ought not to make him responsible for it." The duke became very thoughtful. The countess was silent, she had clasped her hands on her knee, and was gazing, deeply moved, into vacancy. "You are a noble woman, Madeleine!" he said in a low tone. "I always ranked you high, but never higher than at this moment! I will never again wound your feelings. But however worthy of esteem Freyer may be, deeply as I pity the unfortunate man--you are my first consideration--and you cannot, must not continue in this relation. Throughout the whole system of the universe the lower existence must yield to the higher. You are the higher--therefore Freyer must be sacrificed! You are a philosopher--accept the results of your view of the world, be strong and resolve to do what is inevitable quickly. You yourself say that you no longer love him--whether you have ever done