On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
enough. He'll never marry her! Rosel, Rosel!"
The burgomaster's youngest daughter, the predestined Mary of the
future, came in from the shop.
"Run up to your aunt and tell her that Herr Freyer has come back, your
father says so!"
"Will he play the Christus again?" asked the child.
"How do I know--your father didn't say! Perhaps so--they have no one.
Oh dear, this Passion Play will be your father's death!"
The shop-bell, pleasantest of sounds to the anxious woman,
rang--customers must not be kept waiting, even for a little package of
coffee. She hurried into the shop, and Rosel to her aunt Stasi.
This was a good day to the burgomaster's worthy wife. The whole village
bought something, in order to learn something about the interesting
event which the Gross sisters, of course, had told early in the
morning. And, as the burgomaster's wife maintained absolute silence,
what the people did not know they invented--and of course the worst and
most improbable things. Ere noon the wildest rumors were in
circulation, and parties had formed who disputed vehemently over them.
The burgomaster's wife was in the utmost distress. Everybody wanted
information from her, and how easily she might let slip some incautious
remark! In her task of keeping silence, she actually forgot that she
really had nothing at all to conceal--because she knew nothing herself.
Yet the fear of having said a word too much oppressed the conscientious
woman so sorely that afterward, much to her husband's benefit, she was
remarkably patient and spared him the usual reproach of not having
thought of his wife and children, when she discovered that he had given
away his boots and coat!--
Thus in the strange little village the loftiest and the lowliest things
always go hand in hand. But the noble often succumbs to the petty, when
it lacks the power to rise above it.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
RECEIVED AGAIN.
All through the morning the street where Ludwig's house stood was
crowded with people. Toward noon a whisper ran through the throng: "He
is coming!" and Freyer appeared. Many pressed forward curiously but
shrank back again as Freyer drew near. "Good Heavens, how he looks!"
Freyer tottered past them, raising his hat in greeting, but spite of
his modest bearing and simple garb he seemed to have become so
aristocratic a gentleman, that no one ventured to accost him. Something
emanating from him inspired reverence, as if--in the presence of the
dead. He was dead--at least to the world. The people felt this and the
gossip suddenly ceased--the parties formed in an envious or malicious
spirit were reconciled.
"He won't live long!" This was the magic spell which soothed all
contention. If he had any sin on his conscience, he would soon atone
for it, if he had more money than the rest, he must soon "leave it
behind," and if he desired to take a part he could not keep it long!
Only the children who meanwhile had grown into tall lads and lasses ran
trustfully to meet him, holding out their hands with the grace and
charm peculiar to the Ammergau children. And because the grown people
followed him, the little ones did the same. He stopped and talked with
them, recognizing and calling by name each of the older ones, while
their bright eyes gazed searchingly into his, as sunbeams pierce dark
caverns. "Have you been ill, Herr Freyer?"
"No, my dear children--or yes, as people may regard it, but I shall get
well with you!" And, clasping half a dozen of the little hands in his,
he walked on with them.
"Will you play the divine friend of children with us again?" asked one
of the larger girls beseechingly.
"When Christmas comes, we will all play it again!" A strange smile
transfigured Freyer's features, and tears filled his eyes.
"Will you stay with us now?" they asked.
"Yes!" It was only a single word, but the children felt that it was a
vow, and the little band pressed closer and closer around him: "Yes,
now you must never go away!"
Freyer lifted a little boy in his arms and hid his face on the child's
breast: "No, _never_, _never_ more!"
A solemn silence reigned for a moment. The grief of a pure heart is
sacred, and a child's soul feels the sacredness. The little group
passed quietly through the village, and the children formed a
protecting guard around him, so that the grown people could not hurt
him with curious questions. The children showed their parents that
peace must dwell between him and them--for the Ammergau people knew
that in their children dwelt the true spirit which they had lost to a
greater or less degree in the struggle for existence. The _children_
had adopted him--now he was again at home in Ammergau; no parish
meeting was needed to give him the rights of citizenship.
The little procession reached the town-hall. Freyer put the child he
was carrying on the ground--it did not want to leave him. The grown
people feared him, but the children considered him their own property
and were reluctant to give him up. Not until after long persuasion
would they let him enter. As he ascended the familiar stairs his heart
throbbed so violently that he was obliged to lean against the wall. A
long breath, a few steps more--then a walk through the empty council
room to the office, a low knock, the well-known "come in!"--and he
stood before the burgomaster. It is not the custom among the people of
Ammergau to rise when receiving each other. "Good-morning!" said the
burgomaster, keeping his seat as if to finish some pressing task--but
really because he was struggling for composure: "Directly!"
Freyer remained standing at the door.
The burgomaster went on writing. A furtive glance surveyed the figure
in his coat and shoes--but he did not raise his eyes to Freyer's face,
the latter would have seen it. At last he gained sufficient composure
to speak, and now feigned to be aware for the first time of the
new-comer's identity. "Ah, Herr Freyer!" he said, and the eyes of the
two men met. It was a sad sight to both.
The burgomaster, once so strong and stately, aged, shrunken,
prematurely worn. Freyer an image of suffering which was almost
startling.
"Herr Burgomaster, I do not know--whether I may still venture--"
"Pray take a chair, Herr Freyer," said the burgomaster.
Freyer did so, and sat down at some distance.
"You do not seem to have prospered very well," said the other, less to
learn the truth than to commence conversation.
"You doubtless see that."
"Yes----! I could have wished that matters had resulted differently!"
Both were silent, overpowered by emotion. At the end of a few minutes
the burgomaster continued in a low tone: "I meant so well by you--it is
a pity--!"
"Yes, you have _much_ to forgive me, no one knows that better than
I--but you will not reject a penitent man, if he wishes to make amends
for the wrong."
The burgomaster rubbed his forehead: "I do not reject you, but--I have
already told the drawing-master, I only regret that I can do nothing
for you. You are not ill--I cannot support you from the fund for the
sick and it will be difficult to accomplish anything with the parish."
"Oh, Herr Burgomaster, I never expected to be supported. Only, when I
arrived yesterday I was so weary that I could explain nothing to
Ludwig, otherwise he would surely have spared you and me the step which
his great sympathy induced him to take. The clothing with which you
have helped me out of embarrassment for the moment, I will gratefully
accept as _loaned_, but I hope to repay you later."
"Pray let us say no more about it!" answered the burgomaster, waving
his hand.
"Yes! For it can only shame me if you generously bestow material
aid--and yet cherish resentment against me in your heart for the wrong
I have done. What my sick soul most needs is reconciliation with you
and my home. And for that I _can_ ask."
"I am not implacable, Herr Freyer! You have done me no personal
wrong--you have merely injured the cause which lies nearest to my heart
of anything in the world. This is a grief, which must be fought down,
but for which I cannot hold you responsible, though it cost me health
and life. I feel no personal rancor for what had no personal intention.
If a man flings a stone at the image of a saint and unintentionally
strikes me on the temple, I shall not make him responsible for
that--but for having aimed at something which was sacred to others. To
_punish_ him for it I shall leave to a higher judge."
"Permit me to remain silent. You must regard the matter thus from your
standpoint, and I can show you no better one. The right of defense is
denied me. Only I would fain defend myself against the reproach that
what is sacred to others is not to me. Precisely because it is sacred
to me--perhaps more sacred than to others, I have sinned against it."
"That is a contradiction which I do not understand!"
"And I cannot explain!"
"Well, it is not my business to pry into your secrets and judge your
motives. I am not your confessor. I told you that I left God to judge
such things. My duty as burgomaster requires me to aid any member of
the parish to the best of my ability in matters pertaining to earning a
livelihood. If you will give me your confidence, I am ready to aid you
with advice and action. I don't know what you wish to do. You gave your
little property to our poor--do you wish to take it back?"
"Oh, never, Herr Burgomaster, I never take back what I give," replied
Freyer.
"But you will then find it difficult, more difficult than others, to
support yourself," the burgomaster continued. "You went to the
carving-school too late to earn your bread by wood-carving. You know no
trade--you are too well educated to pursue more menial occupations,
such as those of a day-laborer, street-sweeper, etc.--and you would be
too proud to live at the expense of the parish, even if we could find a
way of securing a maintenance for you. It is really very difficult, one
does not know what to say. Perhaps a messenger's place might be
had--the carrier from Linderhof has been ill a long time."
"Have no anxiety on that score, Herr Burgomaster. During my absence, I
devoted my leisure time mainly to drawing and modelling. I also read a
great deal, especially scientific works, so that I believe I could
support myself by carving, if I keep my health. If that fails, I'll
turn wood-cutter. The forest will be best for me. That gives me no
anxiety."
The burgomaster again rubbed his forehead. "Perhaps if the indignation
roused by your desertion has subsided, it may be possible to give you
employment at the Passion Theatre as superintendent, assistant, or in
the wardrobe room."
Freyer rose, a burning blush crimsoned his face, instantly
followed by a deathlike pallor. "You are not in earnest, Herr
Burgomaster--I--render menial service in the Passion--I? Then woe
betide the home which turns her sons from her threshold with mockery
and disgrace, when they seek her with the yearning and repentance of
mature manhood."
Freyer covered his face with his hands, grief robbed him of speech.
The burgomaster gave him a moment's time to calm himself. "Yes, Herr
Freyer, but tell me, do you expect, after all that has occurred, to be
made the Christus?"
"What else should I expect? For what other purpose should _I_ come here
than to aid the community in need, for my dead cousin Josepha received
a letter from one of our relatives here, stating that you had no
Christus and did not know what to do. It seemed to me like a summons
from Heaven and I knew at that moment where my place was allotted. Life
had no farther value for me--one thought only sustained me, to be
something to my _home_, to repair the injury I had done her, atone for