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

"I must get a doctor!" he said gently. "Come, Josepha, don't stare steadily at the empty space where the body lay. Come, I will take you to my room and put you on the bed. Everything there will not remind you of the boy." "No, I will stay here," she said, with that cruelty to herself, peculiar to sick persons who do not fear death. "Just here!" She clung to the uncomfortable sofa on which she sat as if afraid of being dragged away by force. Freyer hastily removed the chairs which had supported the coffin, the crucifix, and the candles. "Yes, put them out, you will soon need them for me. Oh, you kind-hearted man. If only you could have the happiness you deserve. You merited a better fate. Ah, I will not speak of what she has done to me, but her sins against you and the child nothing can efface--nothing!" A fit of coughing almost stifled her. But it seemed as if her eyes continued to utter the words she had not breath to speak, a feverish vengeance glittered in their depths which made Freyer fairly shudder. "Josepha," he said mildly, but firmly. "Sacrifice your hate to God, and be merciful. If you love me, you must forgive her whom I love and forgive." "Never!" gasped Josepha with a violent effort "Joseph--oh! this pain in my chest--I believe it is inflammation of the lungs!" "Alas!--and there is no one to send for the doctor. The men are all in the woods. Go to bed, I beg you, there is not a moment to be lost, I must get the doctor myself. I will send the house-maid to you. Keep up your courage, I will be as quick as I can!" And he hurried off, forgetting his grief for his child in his anxiety about the last companion of his impoverished life. The house-maid came in and asked if she could do anything, but Josepha wanted no assistance. The anxious girl tried to persuade her to go to bed, but Josepha said that she could not breathe lying down. At last she consented to eat something. The nourishment did her good, her weakness diminished and her breathing grew easier. The girl put some wood in the stove and returned to her work in the kitchen. Josepha remained lost in thought. To her, death was deliverance--but Freyer, what would become of him if he lost her also? This alone rendered it hard to die. The damp wood in the stove sputtered and hissed like the voices of wrangling women. It was the "fire witch," which always proclaims the approach of any evil. Josepha shook her head. What could be worse than the evil which had already befallen her poor cousin and herself? The fire witch continued to shriek and lament, but Josepha did not understand her. A pair of crows perched in an old pine tree outside the window croaked so suddenly that she started in terror. Ah, it was very lonely up here! What would it be when Freyer lived all alone in the house and waited months in vain for the heartless woman who remembered neither her husband nor her child? She had not troubled herself about the living, why should she seek the little grave where lay the _dead_? A loud knock on the door of the house echoed through the silence. Josepha listened. Surely it could not be the doctor already? The maid opened it. Heavy footsteps and the voices of men were heard in the entry, then a dog howled. The stupid servant opened the door of the room and called: "Jungfer Josepha, here are two hunters, who are so tired tramping over the snow that they would like to rest awhile. Can they come in? There is no fire anywhere else!" Josepha, though so ill, of course could not refuse admittance to the freezing men, who were already on the threshold. Rising with an effort from the sofa, she pushed some chairs for the strangers near the stove. "I am ill," she said in great embarrassment--"but if you wish to rest and warm yourselves here, I beg--" "We are very grateful," said one of the hunters, a gentleman with a red moustache and piercing eyes. "If we do not disturb you, we will gladly accept your hospitality. We are not familiar with the neighborhood and have lost our way. We came from beyond the frontier and have been wading through the snow five hours." Meanwhile, at a sign from Josepha, the maid-servant had taken the gentlemen's cloaks and hunting gear. "See, this is our booty," said the other hunter. "If we might invite you to dine with us, I should almost venture to ask if this worthy lass could not roast the hare for us? Our cousin, Countess Wildenau, will surely forgive us this little trespass upon her preserves." "Are you relatives of Countess Wildenau?" "Certainly, her nearest and most faithful ones!" Josepha, in her mortal weakness felt as if crushed by the presence of these strangers--with their heavy hunting-boots and loud voices. She tried to take refuge in the kitchen on the pretense of roasting the hare herself. But both gentlemen earnestly protested against it. "No, indeed, that would be fine business to drive you out of your room when you are ill! In that case, we must leave the house at once." The red-bearded gentleman--Cousin Wildenau himself--sprang from his chair and almost forced Josepha to go back to her sofa. "There, my dear--madam--or miss? Now do me the honor to take your seat again and allow us to remain a short time unto the roast is ready, then you must dine with us." A faint smile hovered around Josepha's parched lips. "I thank you, but I am too ill to eat." "You are really very ill"--said the stranger with kindly solicitude. "You are feverish. I fear we are disturbing you very much. Pray send us away if we annoy you." Yet he knew perfectly well that she could not help asking the unbidden guests to stay. "But my dear--madam--or miss?"--Josepha never answered the question--"are you doing nothing to relieve your illness, have you had no physician?" "No we are in such a secluded place, a physician cannot always be had. But I am expecting one to-day." "Why, it is strange to live in this wilderness. And how uncomfortable you are, you haven't even a stool," said the red-haired cousin putting his huge hunting-muff, after warming it at the stove, under her feet. Josepha tried to refuse it, but he would not listen. "You need not mind us, we are sick nurses ourselves, we commanded a sanitary battalion in the war. So we understand a little what to do. You are suffering from asthma, it is difficult for you to breathe, so you must sit comfortably. There! Now put my cousin's muff at your back. That's better, isn't it?" "But pray--" "Come, come, come--no contradiction. You must be comfortable." Josepha was ashamed. The gentlemen were so kind, so solicitous about her--there were good people in the world! The neglected, desolate heart gratefully appreciated the unusual kindness. "But I am really astonished to find everything so primitive. Our honored cousin really ought to have done something more for your comfort. Not even a sofa-cushion, no carpet! I should have thought she would have paid more attention to so faithful a--" he courteously suppressed the word "servant"--and correcting himself, said: "assistant!" Josepha made no answer, but her lips curled bitterly, significantly. Wildenau noted it. "Dissatisfied!" escaped his lips, so low that only his companion heard it. "You have been here a long time, I suppose--how many years? "Have I been with her?" said Josepha frankly. "Since the last Passion Play. That will be ten years next summer." "Ah--true--you are a native of Ammergau!" said the baron, with the manner of one familiar with the facts, whose memory has failed for an instant. "I suppose you came to the countess at the same time as the Christus?" "Yes." "Is he a relative of yours?" "Yes, my cousin." "He is here still, isn't he?" "Why, of course." "He is--her--what is his title?" "Steward." "Is he at home?" "No, he has gone to the city for a doctor." "Oh, I am very sorry. We should have been glad to make his acquaintance. We have heard so many pleasant things about him. A man in whom our cousin was so much interested--" "Then she speaks of him?" "Oh--to her intimate friends--certainly!" said Wildenau equivocally gazing intently at Josepha, whose face beamed with joy at the thought that the countess spoke kindly of Freyer. "Why is he never seen in the city? He must live like a hermit up here." "Yes, Heaven knows that." "He ought to visit my cousin sometimes in the city, everybody would be glad to know the Ammergau Christus." "But if she doesn't wish it--!" said Josepha thoughtlessly. "Why, that would be another matter certainly, but she has never told me so. Why shouldn't she wish it?" murmured Wildenau with well-feigned surprise. "Because she is ashamed of him!" "Ah!" Wildenau almost caught his breath at the significance of the word. "But, tell me, why does Herr Freyer--isn't that his name--submit to it?" Josepha shrugged her shoulders. "Yes, what can he do about it?" A pause ensued. Josepha stopped, as if fearing to say too much. The two gentlemen had become very thoughtful. At last Wildenau resumed the conversation. "I don't understand how a man who surely might find a pleasant position anywhere, can be so dependent on a fine lady's whims. You won't take it amiss, I see that your kinsman's position troubles you--were I in his place I would give up the largest salary rather than--" "Salary?" interrupted Josepha, with flashing eyes. "Do you suppose that my cousin would do anything for the sake of a salary? Oh, you don't know him. If the countess described him to you in that way, the shame is hers!" Wildenau listened intently. "But, my dear woman, that isn't what I meant, you would not let me finish! I was just going to add that such a motive would not affect your kinsman, that it could be nothing but sincere devotion, which bound him to our cousin--a loyalty which apparently wins little gratitude." "Yes, I always tell him so--but he won't admit it--even though his heart should break." Two dark interlaced veins in Josepha's sunken, transparent temples throbbed feverishly. "But--how do you feel? We are certainly disturbing you!" said the baron. "Oh, no! It does not matter!" replied Josepha, courteously. "Could you not take us into some other room--the countess doubtless comes here constantly--there must be other apartments which can be heated." "Yes, but no fire has been made in them for weeks; the stoves will smoke." "Has not the countess been here for so long?" "No, she scarcely ever comes now." "But the time must be very long to you and your cousin--you were doubtless accustomed to the countess' visits." "Certainly," replied Josepha, lost in thought--"when I think how it used to be--and how things are now!" Wildenau glanced around the room, then said softly: "And the little son--he is dead." Josepha stared at him in terror. "Do you know that?" "I know all. My cousin has his picture in her boudoir, a splendid child." Josepha's poor feverish brain was growing more and more confused. The tears she had scarcely conquered flowed again. "Yes, wasn't he--and to let such a child die without troubling herself about him!" "It is inexcusable," said Wildenau. "If the countess ever speaks of it again, tell her that Josepha loved it far more than she, for she followed it to the grave while the mother enjoyed her life--she must be ashamed then." "I will tell her. It is a pity about the beautiful child--was it not like an Infant Christ?" "Indeed it was--and now I know what picture you mean. In Jerusalem, where the child was christened, a copy as they called it of the Infant Christ hung in the chapel over the baptismal font. The countess afterwards bought the picture on account of its resemblance to the boy."