On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
want for nothing, but we must _part_."
Freyer turned pale. "Part? We must part--for ever?"
"Yes."
"Merciful Heaven--is nothing sacred to you, not even the bond of
marriage?"
"You know that I am a Rationalist, and do not believe in dogmas; as
such I hold that every marriage can be dissolved whenever the moral
conditions under which it was formed prove false. Unfortunately this is
the case with us. You did not learn to accommodate yourself to the
circumstances, and you never will--the conflict has increased till it
is unendurable, we cannot understand each other, so our marriage-bond
is spiritually sundered. Why should we maintain its outward semblance?
I have lost through you nine years of my life, sacrificed to you the
duties imposed by my rank, by renouncing marriage with a man of equal
station. Matters have now progressed so far that I shall be ruined if
you do not release me! Will you nevertheless cross my path and thrust
yourself into my sphere?"
"Oh God--this too!" cried Freyer in the deepest anguish. "When have I
thrust myself into your sphere? How, where, have I crossed your path?
During the whole period of my marriage I have lived alone on the
solitary mountain peak as your servant. Have I boasted of my position
as your husband? I waited patiently until every few weeks, and later,
every few months, you came to me. I disdained all the gifts of your
lavish generosity, it was my pride to work for you in return for the
morsel of food I ate. I asked nothing from your wealth, your position,
took no heed, like others, of the splendor of your establishment. I
wanted nothing from you save the immortal part. I was the poorest, the
most insignificant of all your servants! My sole possession was your
love, and that I was forced to conceal from every inquisitive eye, like
a theft, in order to avoid the scorn of my fellow-citizens and all who
could not understand the relation in which I stood to you. But this
disgrace also I bore in silence, when a word would have vindicated
me--bore it, that I might not drag you down from your brilliant
position to mine--and you call that thrusting myself into your sphere?
I will grant that I gradually became morose and embittered and by my
ill-temper and reproaches deterred you more and more from coming, but I
am only human and was forced to bear things beyond human endurance. The
intention was good, though the execution might have been faulty. I
lost your love--I lost my child--I lost my faithful companion, Josepha,
yet I bore all in silence! I saw you revelling in the whirl of
fashionable society, saw you admired by others and forget me, but I
bore it--because I loved you a thousand times better than myself and
did not wish to cause you pain. I often thought of secretly vanishing
from your life, like a shadow which did not belong there. But the
inviolability of the marriage-bond held me, and I wished to try once
more, by the power of the vow you swore at the altar, to lead you back
to your duty, for I cannot dissolve the sacrament which unites us, and
which you voluntarily accepted with me. If it does not bind _you_--it
still binds _me_! I am your husband, and shall remain so; if _you_
break the bond you must answer for it to God; as for me, I shall keep
it--unto death!"
"That would be a needless sacrifice, which neither church nor state
would require. I will not release myself and leave you bound. You argue
from a mistaken belief that we were legally married--it is time to
explain the error, both on your account and mine. You speak of a vow
which I made you before the altar, pray remember that we have never
stood before one."
"Never?" muttered Freyer, and the vein on his forehead swelled with
anger.
"Was the breakfast-table of the Prankenberg pastor an altar?"
"No, but wherever two human beings stand before a priest in the name of
God, there is a viewless altar."
"Those are subjective Catholic opinions which I do not understand--I do
not consider myself married, and you need not do so either."
"Not married? Do you know what you are saying?"
"What I _must_ say, to loose _your_ bonds as well as _mine_."
"Good Heavens, what will it avail if you loose my bonds and at the same
time cut an artery so that I bleed to death? No, no, you cannot be so
cruel. You cannot be in earnest. Omnipotent Father--you did not say it,
take back the words. Lord, forgive her, she does not know what she is
doing! Oh, take back those words--I will not believe that my wife, my
dear wife, can be so wicked!"
"Moderate your expressions! I guarantee my standpoint; ask whom you
choose, you will hear that we are not married!"
Freyer rushed up to her and seized her by the shoulders, shaking her as
a tempest shakes a young birch-tree. "Not married--do you know then
what you are!" He waited vainly for an answer, he seemed fairly crazed.
"Shall I tell you, shall I? Then for nine years you were a----"
"Do not finish!" shrieked the countess, wrenching herself with a
desperate effort from the terrible embrace and hurling him from her.
"Yes, I will finish, and you deserve that the whole world should hear
and point the finger of scorn at you. I ought to shout to all the winds
of Heaven that the Countess Wildenau, who is too proud to be called a
poor man's wife, was not too proud to be his----"
"Traitor, ungrateful, dishonorable traitor! Is this your return for my
love? Take a knife and thrust it into my heart, it would be more seemly
than to threaten me with degradation!" She drew herself up to her full
height and raised her hand as if to take an oath: "Accursed be the hour
I raised you from the dust to my side. Curses on the false humanity
which strove to efface the distinctions of rank, curses on the murmur
of 'the eternal rights of man' which removes the fetters from
brutishness, that it may set its foot upon the neck of culture! It is
like the child which opens the door to the whining wolf to be torn to
pieces by the brute. Yes, take yourself out of my life, gloomy shadow
which I conjured from those seething depths in which ruin is wrought
for us--take yourself away, you have no longer any part in me!--Your
right is doubly, trebly forfeited, your spell is broken, your strength
recoils from the shield of a noble spirit, under whose protection I
stand. Dare to lay hands on me again and--you will insult the betrothed
bride of the Duke of Barnheim and must account to him."
A cry--a heavy fall--Freyer lay senseless.
The countess timidly stroked the pallid face--a strange memory stole
over her--thus he lay prostrate on the ground when he was nailed to the
cross. She could not help looking at him again and again: Oh, that all
this should be a lie! Those features--that noble brow, on which the
majesty of suffering was throned--the very image of the Saviour! Yet
only an image, a mask! She looked away, she would gaze no longer, she
would not again fall a victim to the old delusion--she would not let
herself be softened by the wonderful, delusive face! But what was she
to do? If she called her servants, she would be the talk of the whole
city on the morrow. She must aid him, try to restore him to
consciousness alone. Yet if she now roused him from the merciful
stupor, if the grief and rage which had overwhelmed him should break
forth again--would he not murder her? Was it strange that she remained
so calm in the presence of this thought? A contemptuous indifference to
death had taken possession of her. "If he kills me, he has a right to
do so."
She was too lofty to shun punishment which she had deserved, though it
were her death. So she awaited her fate.
She brought a little bottle filled with a pungent essence from her
sleeping-room, and poured a few drops into his mouth. It was long ere
he gave any sign of life--it seemed as though the soul was reluctant to
awake, as if it would not return to consciousness. At last he opened
his eyes;--they rested as coldly on the little trembling hand which was
busied about him as if he had never clasped it, never kissed it, never
pressed it to his throbbing heart. The storm had spent its fury--he was
calm!
The countess had again been mistaken in him, as usual--his conduct was
always unlike her anticipations. He rose as quickly as his strength
permitted, passed his hand over his disordered hair, and looked for his
hat: "I beg your pardon for having startled you--forget this scene,
which I might have spared you and myself, had I known what I do now. I
deeply lament that the error which clouded your life has lasted so
long!"
"Yes," she said, and the words fell from her lips with the sharp sound
of a diamond cutting glass: "Yes, it was not _worth_ it!"
Freyer turned and gave her one last look--she felt it through her
lowered lids. She had sunk on the sofa and fixed her eyes on the
ground. A death-like chill ran through her limbs--she waited in her
position as if paralysed. All was still for a moment, then she heard a
light step cross the soft carpet of the room--and when she looked up,
the door had closed behind Joseph Freyer.
CHAPTER XXIX.
IN THE DESERTED HOUSE.
The night had passed, day was shining through the closed curtains--but
Countess Wildenau still sat in the same spot where Freyer had left her.
Yes, he had gone "silently, noiselessly as a shadow"--perhaps vanished
from her life, as he had said! She did not know what she felt, she
would fain have relieved her stupor by tears, but she dared not
weep--why should she? Everything was proceeding exactly as she wished.
True, she had been harsh, too severe and harsh, and words had been
uttered by both which neither could forgive the other! Yet it was
to be expected that the bond between them would not be sundered without
a storm--why was her heart so heavy, as if some misfortune had
happened--greater than aught which could befall her. Tears! What would
the duke think? It would be an injustice to him. And it was not true
that she felt anything; she had no emotion whatever, neither for the
vanished man nor for the duke! Honor--honor was the only thing which
could still be saved! But--his sudden silence when she mentioned her
betrothal to the duke--his going thus, without a farewell--without a
word! He despised her--she was no longer worthy of him. That was the
cause of his sudden calmness. There was a crushing grandeur and dignity
in this calmness after the outbursts of fierce despair. The latter
expressed a conflict, the former a victory--and _she_ was vanquished,
hers was the shame, the pangs of conscience, and a strange,
inexplicable grief.
So she sat pondering all night long, always imagining that she had seen
what she had not witnessed, the last look he had fixed upon her, and
then--his noiseless walk through the room. It seemed as though time had
stopped at that moment, and she was compelled, all through the night,
to experience that _one_ instant!
Some one tapped lightly on the door, and the maid entered with a
haggard face. "I only wanted to ask," she said, in a weary, faint tone,
"whether I might go to bed a little while. I have waited all night long
for Your Highness to ring--"
"Why, have you been waiting for me?" said the countess, rising slowly
from the sofa. "I did not know it was so late. What time is it?"
"Nearly six o'clock. But Your Highness looks so pale! Will you not
permit me to put you to bed?"
"Yes, my good Nannie, take me to my bedroom. I cannot walk, my feet are
numb."
"You should lie down at once and try to get warm. You are as cold as
ice!" And the maid, really alarmed by the helplessness of her usually
haughty mistress, helped the drooping figure to her room.
The countess allowed herself to be undressed without resistance,