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

The burgomaster read the contents of the note at a glance, then handed it to Freyer. "Thank you--I do not read letters which are not directed to me." "Very well, then I must tell you. The Countess Wildenau, not having your address, requests me to take charge of a considerable sum of money which I am to invest for you in landed property or in stocks, according to my own judgment. You were not to hear of it until the gift had been legally attested. But I deem it my duty to inform you of this." Freyer stood calmly before him, with a clear, steadfast gaze. "I cannot be forced to accept a gift if I do not desire it, can I?" "Certainly not." "Then please write to the countess that I can accept neither gifts nor any kind of assistance from--strangers, and that you, as well as I, will positively decline every attempt to show her generosity in this way." "Freyer!" cried the burgomaster, "will you not some day repent the pride which rejects a fortune thus flung into your lap?" "I am not proud--I begged my bread on my way here, Herr Burgomaster--and if there were no other means of livelihood, I would not be ashamed to accept the crust the poorest man would share with me--but from Countess Wildenau I will receive nothing--I would rather starve." The burgomaster sprang from his chair and approached him. His gaunt figure was trembling with emotion, his weary eyes flashed with enthusiasm, he extended his arms: "Freyer--now you belong to us once more--_now_ you shall again play the Christus." Silently, in unutterable, mournful happiness, Freyer sank upon the burgomaster's breast. His home was appeased. CHAPTER XXXIV. AT DAISENBERGER's GRAVE. It was high noon. The children were at school, the grown people had gone to their work. The village was silent and no one stopped Freyer as he hurried down the broad old "Aussergasse," as the main street of the place was called, with its painted houses, toward the graveyard and the church. In the cemetery beside the church stands a simple monument with a bronze bust. An unlovely head with all sorts of lines, as if nature had intentionally given this soul an ugly husk, out of wrath that it was not to be hers, that she could not have as much power over it as over other dust-born mortals--for this soul belonged to Heaven, earth had no share in it. But no matter how nature strove to disfigure it, its pure beauty shone through the physical covering so radiantly that even mortal eyes perceived only the beauty and overlooked the ugliness. This soul, which might also be called the soul of Ammergau, for it cherished the whole population of the village, lived for the people, gave them all and kept nothing for itself--this noble spirit, to whom the gratitude of the survivors, and they embraced the whole community, had created a monument, was Alois Daisenberger--the reformer of the Passion Play. It is a peculiar phenomenon that the people of Ammergau, in contrast to all others, are grateful only for intellectual gifts while they punish physical benefits with scorn. It offends their pride to be compelled to accept such trifling donations and they cherish a suspicion that the donor may boast of his benefits. Whoever has not the self-denial to allay this suspicion by enduring all sorts of humiliations and affronts must not try to aid the Ammergau villagers. He who has done any _good_ deed has accomplished _nothing_--not until he has atoned for it, as though it were something evil, does he lend it its proper value and appease the offended pride of the recipient. This was the case with Daisenberger. He bore with saintly patience all the angularities and oddities of these strange characters--and they honored him as a saint for it. He had the eye of genius for the natural talent, a heart for the sufferings, appreciation of the intellectual grandeur of these people. And he gave security for it--for no worldly honor, no bishopric which was offered could lure him away. What was it that outweighed everything with which church and government desired to honor him? Whoever stands in the quiet graveyard, fanned by the keen mountain air which brings from the village stray notes of a requiem that is being practised, surrounded by snow-clad mountain-peaks gazing dreamily down on the little mound with its tiny cross, whoever gazes at the monument with its massive head, looking down upon the village from beneath a garland of fresh blue gentians, is overwhelmed by a mournful suspicion that here is concealed a secret in which a great intellect could find the satisfaction of its life! But it seems as if the key rested in Daisenberger's grave. To this grave Freyer hastened. The first errand of the returned personator of Christ was to his author! The solitary grave lay forgotten by the world. It is a genuine work of faith and love when the author vanishes in his creation and leaves the honor to God. The whole world flocks to the Passion Play--but no one thinks of him who created for it the form which renders it available for the present time. It is the "Oberammergau," not the "Daisenberger" Passion Play. He gave to the people of Ammergau not only his life and powers--but also that which a man is most loth to resign--his fame. He was one to whom earth could neither give anything, nor take anything away. Therefore there were few who visited his grave in the little Ammergau churchyard. The grace and beauty of his grand and noble artist soul weave viewless garlands for it. Freyer knelt in mute devotion beside the grave and prayed, not for himself, not even for him who was one of the host of the blessed, but to him, that he might sanctify his people and strengthen them with the sacred earnestness of their task. The longer he gazed at the iron, yet gentle face, without seeing any change in the familiar features, which had once smiled so kindly at him when he uttered for the first time the words expelling the money-changers from the temple--the greater became his grief, as if the soul of his people had died with Daisenberger, as if Ammergau were only a graveyard and he the sole mourner. "Oh, great, noble soul, which had room for a world, and yet confined yourself to this narrow valley in order to create in it for us a world of love--here lies your unworthy Christus moistening with his tears the stone which no angel will roll away that we may touch your transfigured body and say, give us thy spirit!" Then, as if the metal mouth from which he implored an answer spoke with a brazen tongue, a bell echoed solemnly on the air. It was twelve o'clock. What the voice said could not be clothed in words. It had exhorted him when, in baptism, he was received into the covenant of Him whom he was chosen to personate--it had consoled him when, a weeping boy, he followed his father's bier, it had threatened him when on Sunday with his schoolmates, he pulled too violently at the bell-rope, it had warned him when he had lingered high up on the peaks of the Kofel or Laaber searching for Alpine roses or, shouting exultantly, climbing after chamois. A smile flitted over his face as he thought of those days! And then--then that very bell had pealed resonantly, like a voice from another world, on the morning of the Passion, at the hour when he stood in the robes of the Christ behind the curtain with the others to repeat the Lord's Prayer before the performance--the lofty, fervent prayer that God would aid them, that all might go well "for His honor." And again it had rung solemnly and sweetly, when he saw the beautiful woman praying at dawn in the garden--to the imaginary God, which he was _not_. Then it seemed as if the bell burst--there was a shrill discord, a keen pang through brain and heart. Oh, memory--the past! Angel and fiend at once--why do you conjure up your visions before one dedicated to the cross and to death, why do you rouse the longing for what is irrevocably lost? Freyer, groaning aloud, rested his damp brow against the cold stone, and the bronze bust, as if in pity, dropped a blue gentian from its garland on the penitent's head with a light touch, like a kiss from spirit lips. He took it and placed it in his pocketbook beside the child's fair curl--the only thing left him of all his vanished happiness. Then a hand was laid on his shoulder: "I thank you--that _this_ was your first visit." The sexton stood before him: "I see that you have remained a true son of Ammergau. May God be with you!" Freyer's tears fell as he grasped the extended hand. "Oh, noble blood of Daisenberger, thank you a thousand times. And you, true son of Ammergau--nephew of our dead guardian angel, tell me in his name, will you receive me again in your midst and in the sacred work?" "I do not know what you have done and experienced," said the sexton, gazing at him with his large, loyal brown eyes. "I only saw you at a distance, praying beside my uncle's grave, and I thought that whoever did that could not be lost to us. By this dear grave, I give you my hand. Will you work with me, live, and if need be die for the sacred will of this dead man, for our great task, as he cherished it in his heart?" "Yes and amen!" "Then may God bless you." The two men looked earnestly and loyally into each other's eyes, and their hands clasped across the consecrated mound, as though taking an oath. Suddenly a woman, still beautiful though somewhat beyond youth, appeared, moving with dignified cordiality toward Freyer: "Good-day, Herr Freyer; do you remember me?" she said in a quiet, musical voice, holding out her hand. "Mary!" cried Freyer, clasping it. "Anastasia, why should I not remember you? How do you do? But why do you call me Herr Freyer? Have we become strangers?" "I thought I ought not to use the old form of speech, you have been away so long, and"--she paused an instant, looking at him with a pitying glance, as if to say: "And are so unhappy." For delicate natures respect misfortune more than rank and wealth, and the sufferer is sacred to them. The sexton looked at the clock: "I must go, the vesper service begins again at one o'clock. Farewell till we meet again. Are you coming to the gymnasium this evening?" "Hardly--I am not very well. But we shall see each other soon. Are you married now? I have not asked--" The sexton's face beamed with joy. "Yes, indeed, and well married. I have a good wife. You'll see her when you call on me." "A good wife--you are a happy man!" said Freyer in a low tone. "She has a great deal to do just now for the little one." "Ah--you have a child, too!" "And such a beautiful one!" added Anastasia. "A lovely little girl! She will be a Mary some day. But the sexton's wife is spoiling her, she hardly lets her out of her arms." "A good mother--that must be beautiful!" said Freyer, with a strange expression, as if speaking in a dream. Then he pressed his friend's hand and turned to go. "Will you not bid me good bye, too?" asked Anastasia. The sexton sadly made a sign behind Freyer's back, as if to say: "he has suffered sorely!" and went into his church. Freyer turned quickly. "Yes, I forgot, my Mary. I am rude, am I not?" "No--not rude--only unhappy!" said Anastasia, while a pitying look rested upon his emaciated face. "Yes!" replied Freyer, lowering his lids as if he did not wish her to read in his eyes _how_ unhappy. But she saw it nevertheless. For a time the couple stood beside Daisenberger's grave. "If _he_ were only alive--he would know what would help you." Freyer shook his head. "If Christ Himself should come from Heaven, He could not help me, at least except through my faith in Him." "Joseph, will you not go home with me? Look down yonder, there is my