On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
clumsily! I know it is unseemly to meddle with relations of which one
is ignorant, for Freyer's reserve allowed me no insight into these. But
here there is danger in delay, and where a human life is at stake,
every other consideration must be silent. I have never been able to
learn any particulars from Freyer. I only know that he was away nine
years, as it was rumored, with you, and that he returned a beggar!"
"That, Herr Gross, is no fault of mine."
"Not that, Countess, but it must be _your_ fault alone which has caused
relations so unnatural that Freyer was ashamed to accept from you even
the well-earned payment for his labor."
"You are right there, Herr Gross."
"And that would be the least, Countess, but he has returned, not only a
beggar, but a lost man."
"Ludwig!"
"Yes, Countess. That is the reason I determined, after consulting with
the burgomaster, to come here and talk with you, if you will allow it."
"Speak, for Heaven's sake; what has befallen him?"
"Freyer is ill, Countess."
"But, how can that be? He is acting the Christus every week and
delighting the world?"
"Yes, that is just it! He acts, as a candle burns down while it
shines--it is no longer the phosphorescence of genius, it is a light
which feeds on his own life and consumes it."
"Merciful God!"
"And he _wishes_ to die--that is unmistakable--that is why it is so
hard to aid him. He will heed no counsel, follow no advice of the
physician, do nothing which might benefit him. Now matters have gone so
far that the doctor told us yesterday he might fall dead upon the stage
at any hour--and we ought not to allow him to go on playing! But he
cannot be prevented. He desires nothing more than death."
"What is the matter?" asked the pale lips of the countess.
"A severe case of heart disease, Countess, which might be arrested for
several years by means of careful nursing, perfect rest, and
strengthening food; but he has no means to obtain the better
nourishment his condition requires, because he is too proud to be a
burden on any one, and he lacks the ease of mind necessary to relieve
his heart. Nursing is out of the question--he occupies, having given
his own home to the poor when he left Ammergau, as you know, a
miserable, damp room in a wretched tavern, just outside the village,
and wanders about the mountains day and night. Of course speedy death
is inevitable--hastened, moreover, by the exertions demanded by his
part."
Ludwig Gross rose. "I do not know how you estimate the value of a poor
man's life, Countess," he said bitterly--"I have merely done my duty by
informing you of my friend's condition. The rest I must leave to you."
"Great Heaven! What shall I do! He rejects everything I offer. Perhaps
you do not know that I gave him a fortune and he refused it."
Ludwig Gross fixed an annihilating glance upon her. "If you know no
other way of rendering aid here save by _money_--I have nothing more to
say."
He bowed slightly and left the room without waiting for an answer.
"Ludwig!" she called: "Hear me!"
He had gone--he was right--did she deserve anything better? No--no! She
stood in the middle of the room a moment as if dazed. Her heart
throbbed almost to bursting. "Has it gone so far! I have left the man
from whose lips I drew the last breath of life to starve and languish.
I allowed the heart on which I have so often rested to pine within
dark, gloomy walls, bleed and break in silent suffering. Murderess, did
you hear it? He is lost, through your sin! Oh, God, where is the crime
which I have not committed--where is there a more miserable creature? I
have murdered the most innocent, misunderstood the noblest, repulsed
the most faithful, abused the most sacred, and for what?" She sank
prostrate. The measure was full--was running over.--The angel with the
cup of wormwood had overtaken her, as Freyer had prophesied and was
holding to her lips the bitter chalice of her own guilt, which she must
drain, drop by drop. But now this guilt had matured, grown to its full
size, and stood before her, grinning at her with the jeer of madness.
"Wings--oh, God, lend me wings! While I am doubting and despairing
here--it may be too late--the terrible thing may have happened--he may
have died, unreconciled, with the awful reproach in his heart! Wings,
wings, oh God!" She started up and flew to the bell with the speed of
thought. "Send for the head-groom at once!" Then she hurried into the
chamber, where the maid was arranging her garments for the night. "Pack
as quickly as possible whatever I shall need for a journey of two or
three days--or weeks--I don't know myself."
"Evening or street costumes?" asked the maid, startled by her mistress'
appearance. "Street dresses!"
Meantime the head-groom had come. She hastened into the boudoir: "Have
relays of horses saddled and sent forward at once--it is after ten
o'clock--there is no train to Weilheim--but I must reach Oberammergau
to-night! Martin is to drive, send on four relays--I will give you four
hours start--the men must be off within ten minutes--I will go at two
o'clock--I shall arrive there at seven."
"Your Excellency, that is scarcely possible"--the man ventured to say.
"I did not ask whether it was possible--I told you that it _must_ be
done, if it kills all my horses. Quick, rouse the whole stable--every
one must help. I shall wait at the window until I see the men ride
away."
The man bowed silently, he knew that opposition was futile, but he
muttered under his breath: "To ruin six of her best horses in one
night--just for the sake of that man in Ammergau, she ought to be put
under guardianship."
The courtyard was instantly astir, men were shouting and running to and
fro. The stable-doors were thrown open, lanterns flashed hither and
thither, the trampling and neighing of horses were heard, the noise and
haste seemed as if the wild huntsman was setting off on his terrible
ride through the starless night.
The countess stood, watch in hand, at the lighted window, and the
figure of their mistress above spurred every one to the utmost haste.
In a few minutes the horses for the relays were saddled and the grooms
rode out of the courtyard.
"The victoria with the pair of blacks must be ready at two," the
head-groom said to old Martin. "You must keep a sharp look-out--I don't
see how you will manage--those fiery creatures in that light carriage."
The countess heard it at the window, but she paid no heed. If only she
could fly there with the light carriage, the fiery horses, as her heart
desired. Forward--was her only thought.
"Must I go, too?" asked the maid, pale with fright.
"No, I shall need no one." The countess now shut the windows and went
to her writing-desk, for there was much to be done within the few short
hours. Her father's funeral--sending the announcements--all these
things must now be entrusted to others and a representative must be
found among the relatives to fill her own place. She assigned as a
pretext the necessity of taking a short journey for a day or two,
adding that she did not yet know whether she could return in time for
the funeral of the prince. Her pen fairly flew over the paper, and she
finally wrote a brief note to the duke, in which she told him nothing
except her father's death. The four hours slipped rapidly away, and as
the clock struck two the victoria drove to the door.
The countess was already standing there. The lamps at the entrance
shone brightly, but even brighter was old Martin's face, as he curbed
the spirited animals with a firm hand.
"To Ammergau, Martin!" said the countess significantly, as she entered
the equipage.
"Hi! But I'll drive now!" cried the old man, joyously, not suspecting
the sorrowful state of affairs, and off dashed the steeds as though
spurred by their mistress' fears--while guilt and remorse accompanied
her with the heavy flight of destiny.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
ON THE WAY TO THE CROSS.
It was Sunday. Again the throngs surged around the Passion Theatre,
more devout, more numerous than ever.
Slowly, as if his feet could scarcely support him, a tall figure,
strangely like one who no longer belongs to the number of the living,
tottered through the crowd to the door of the dressing-room, while all
reverently made way for him, yet every one perceived that it must be
the Christus! Whoever met his eye shuddered as if the incarnation of
woe had passed, as if he had seen the face of the god of sorrow.
Eight o'clock had struck, the cannon had announced the commencement of
the play, the waiting throng pressed in, crowding each other, and the
doors were closed.
Outside of the theatre it was silent and empty. The carriages had
driven away. The people who could get no tickets had dispersed. Only
the venders of photographs and eatables still sat in their booths,
listening idly and sleepily to the notes of the music, which came in
subdued tones through the board partition.
Suddenly the ground trembled slightly under the wheels of a carriage
driven at furious speed. A pair of horses covered with foam appeared in
the distance--in a few seconds a dusty victoria stopped before the
Passion Theatre.
"St, st!" said one of the box-tenders, appearing at the top of the
stairs and hurrying down to prevent farther disturbance.
"Can I get a ticket?" asked the lady in the carriage.
"I am very sorry--but unfortunately every seat is filled."
"Oh, Heaven! I lost an hour--one of the horses met with an accident, I
have driven all night--I beg you--I _must_ get in!"
The box-tender shrugged his shoulders. "Unfortunately it is
impossible!" he said with an offensively lofty manner.
"I am not accustomed to find anything which I desire impossible, so far
as it depends upon human beings to fulfill it," she answered haughtily.
"I will pay any price, no matter whether it is a thousand marks, more
or less--if you will get me even the poorest seat within the walls."
"It is not a question of price!" was the smiling answer. "If we had the
smallest space, we could have disposed of it a hundred times over
to-day."
"Then take me on the stage."
"Oh, it is no use to speak of that--no matter who might come--no one is
allowed there."
"Then announce me to the burgomaster--I will give you my card."
"I am very sorry, but I have no admittance to the stage during the
performance. In the long intermission at twelve o'clock you might be
announced, but not before."
The countess' heart throbbed faster and faster. She could hear the
notes of the music, she fancied she could distinguish the different
voices, yet she was not permitted to enter. Now came the shouts of
"Hosanna!"--yes, distinctly--that was the entry into Jerusalem, those
were the exulting throngs who attended him. If she could only look
through a chink--! Now, now it was still--then a voice--oh! she would
recognize those tones among thousands. A draught of air bore them to
her through the cracks in the walls. Yes, that was he; a tremor ran
through every limb--he was speaking.
The world hung on his lips, joy was in every eye, comfort in every
heart--within was salvation and she must stand without and could not go
to her own husband. But he was not her husband, that had been her own
wish. Now it was granted!
The "foolish virgin" outside the door burst into tears like a child.
The man who had just refused her request so coldly, pitied her: "If I
only knew how to help you, I would do so gladly," he said thoughtfully.
"I'll tell you! If it is so important come during the intermission, but
on _foot_, without attracting attention, to the rear entrance of the
stage--then I'll try to smuggle you in, even if it is only into the
passage for the chorus!"