On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
voice grew weaker hour by hour. And she dared not tend him, dared not
offer him any strengthening drink, dared not wipe the moisture from his
brow. She heard the audience weeping and sobbing--the scene of bearing
the cross was at hand!
The sky had darkened, and heavy sultry clouds hung low, forming natural
soffits to the open front stage, as if Heaven desired to conceal it
from the curious gods, that they might not see what was passing to-day.
Mary and John--the women of Jerusalem and Simon of Cyrene assembled,
waiting in anxious suspense for the coming of the Christ. Anastasia was
again personating Mary, the countess instantly recognized her pure,
clear tones, and the meeting in the fields ten years before came back
to her mind--not without a throb of jealous emotion. Now a movement
among the audience announced the approach of the procession--of the
cross! This time the actors came from the opposite direction and upon
the front stage. Every vein in her body was throbbing, her brain
whirled, she struggled to maintain her composure; at last she was to
see him for the first time!
"It is he, oh God!--it is my son!" cried Mary. Christ stepped upon the
stage, laden with the cross. It was acting no longer, it was reality.
His feet could scarcely support him under the burden, panting for
breath, he dragged himself to the proscenium. The countess uttered a
low cry of alarm; she fancied that she was looking into the eyes of a
dying man, so ghastly was his appearance. But he had heard the
exclamation and, raising his head, looked at her, his emaciated face
quivered--he tottered, fell--he _was obliged_ to fall; it was in his
part.
The countess shuddered--it was too natural!
"He can go no farther," said the executioner. "Here, strengthen
yourself." The captain handed him the flask, but he did not take it.
"You won't drink? Then drive him forward."
The executioners shook him roughly, but Freyer did not stir--he _ought_
not to move yet.
Simon of Cyrene took the cross on his shoulders, and now the
Christ should have risen, but he still lay prostrate. The cue was
given--repeated--a pause followed--a few of the calmer ones began to
improvise, the man who was personating; the executioner stooped and
shook him, another tried to raise him--in vain. An uneasy movement ran
through the audience--the actors gathered around and gazed at him. "He
is dead! It has come upon us!" ran in accents of horror from lip to
lip.
An indescribable confusion followed. The audience rose tumultuously
from the seats. Caiaphas, the burgomaster, ordered in a low tone: "To
the central stage--every one! Quick--and then drop the curtain!" But no
one heard him: He bent over the senseless figure. "It is only an attack
of faintness," he called to the audience, but the excitement could no
longer be allayed--all were pressing across the orchestra to the stage.
The countess could bear it no longer--rank and station, the
thousands of curious eyes to which she would expose herself were all
forgotten--there is a cosmopolitanism which unites mortals in a common
brotherhood more closely than anything else--a mutual sorrow.
"Freyer, Freyer!" she shrieked in tones that thrilled every nerve of
the bystanders: "Do not die--oh, do not die!" Rushing upon the stage,
she threw herself on her knees beside the unconscious form.
"Ladies and gentlemen--I must beg you to clear the stage"--shouted
Caiaphas to the throng, and turning to the countess, whom he
recognized, added: "Countess Wildenau--I can permit no stranger to
enter, I _must_ beg you to withdraw."
She drew herself up to her full height, composed and lofty--an
indescribable dignity pervaded her whole bearing: "I have a right to be
here--I am his wife!"
CHAPTER XXXIX.
STATIONS OF SORROW.
"I am his wife!" Heaven and earth have heard it. She had conquered. The
tremendous deed, fear of which had led her to the verge of crime--love
had now done in a _single_ moment without conflict or delay. There was
joy in heaven and on earth over the penitent sinner! And all the
viewless powers which watch the way to the cross, wherever any human
being treads it; all the angels, the guardian spirits of the now
interrupted Play hastened to aid the new Magdalene, that she might
climb the Mount of Calvary to the Hill of Golgotha. And as if the
heavenly hosts were rushing down to accompany this bearer of the cross
a gust of wind suddenly swept through the open space across the stage
and over the audience, and the palms rustled in the breeze, the palaces
of Jerusalem tottered, and the painted curtains swayed in the air. This
one gust of wind had rent the threatening clouds so that the sun sent
down a slanting brilliant ray like the dawn of light when chaos began
to disappear!
A light rain which, in the golden streaks, glittered like dusty pearls
fell, settling the dust and dispelling the sultriness of the parched
earth.
Silence had fallen upon the people on the stage and in the audience,
and as a scorched flower thirstily expands to the cooling dew, the sick
man's lips parted and eagerly inhaled the damp, refreshing air.
"Oh--he lives!" said the countess in a tone as sweet as any mother ever
murmured at the bedside of a child whom she had believed dead, any
bride on the breast of her wounded lover.
"He lives, oh, he lives!" all the spectators repeated.
Meanwhile the physician had come and examined the sufferer, who had
been placed on a couch formed of cloaks and shawls: "It is a severe
attack of heart disease. The patient must be taken to better lodgings
than he has hitherto occupied. This condition needs the most careful
nursing to avoid the danger. I have repeatedly called attention to it,
but always in vain."
"It will be different now, Doctor!" said the countess. "I have already
secured rooms, and beg to be allowed to move him there."
"The Countess!" she suddenly heard a voice exclaim behind her--and when
she glanced around, Ludwig Gross stood before her in speechless
amazement.
"Can it be? I have just arrived by the train from Munich--but I did not
see--"
"I suppose so--I drove here last night. But do not call me Countess any
longer, Herr Gross--my name is Magdalena Freyer." The drawing-master
made no reply, but knelt beside the sick man, who was beginning to
breathe faintly and bent over him a long time: "If only it is not too
late!" he muttered bitterly, still unappeased.
The burgomaster approached the countess and held out his hand, gazing
into her eyes with deep emotion. "Such an act can never be too late.
Even if it can no longer benefit the individual, it is still a
contribution to the moral treasure of the world," he said consolingly.
"I thank you. You are very kind!" she answered, tears springing to her
eyes.
A litter had now been obtained and the physician ordered the sufferer
to be lifted gently and laid upon it: "We will first take him to the
dressing-room, and give him some food before carrying him home."
The countess had mentioned the street: "It is some little distance to
the house."
The command was obeyed and the litter was carried to the dressing-room.
The friends followed with the countess. On the way a woman timidly
joined her and gazed at her with large, sparkling eyes: "I don't know
whether you remember me? I only wanted to tell you how glad I am that
you are here? Oh, how well he has deserved it!"
"Mary!" said the countess, shamed and overpowered by the charm of this
most unselfish soul, clasping both her hands: "Mary--Mother of God!"
And her head sank on her companion's virgin breast Anastasia passed her
arm affectionately around her and supported her as they moved on.
"Yes, we two must hold together, like Mary and Magdalene! We will aid
each other--it is very hard, but our two saints had no easier lot. And
if I can help in any way--" They had reached the dressing-room, the
group paused, the countess pressed Anastasia's hand: "Yes, we will hold
together, Mary!" Then she hastened to her husband's side--but the
doctor motioned to her to keep at a distance that the sudden sight of
her might not harm the sick man when he recovered his consciousness. He
felt his pulse: "Scarcely fifty beats--I must give an injection of
ether."
He drew the little apparatus from his pocket, thrust the needle into
Freyer's arm and injected a little of the stimulating fluid. The
bystanders awaited the result in breathless suspense: "Bring wine,
eggs, bouillon, anything you can get--only something strong, which will
increase the action of the heart."
The drawing-master hurried off. The pastor, who had just heard of the
occurrence, now entered: "Is the sacrament to be administered?" he
asked.
"No, there is no fear of so speedy an end," the physician answered.
"Rest is the most imperative necessity." The burgomaster led the pastor
to the countess: "This is Herr Freyer's wife, who has just publicly
acknowledged her marriage," he said in a low tone: "Countess Wildenau!"
"Ah, ah--these are certainly remarkable events. Well, I can only hope
that God will reward such love," the priest replied with delicate tact:
"You have made a great sacrifice, Countess."
"Oh, if you knew--" she paused. "Hark--he is recovering his
consciousness!" She clasped her hands and bent forward to listen--"may
God help us now."
"How do you feel, Herr Freyer?" asked the doctor.
"Tolerably well, Doctor! Are you weeping, Mary? Did I frighten you?" He
beckoned to her and she hastened to his side.
The countess' eyes grew dim as he whispered something to Anastasia.
This was the torture of the damned--Mary might be near him, his
first glance, his first words were hers, while she, his wife, stood
banished, at a distance! And she had made him suffer this torture for
years--without compassion. "Oh, God, Thou art just, and Thy scales
weigh exactly!" But the all-wise Father does not only punish--He also
shows mercy.
"Where is she?" Anastasia repeated his words in a clear, joyous tone:
"You thought you saw her in the passage through which the chorus
passed. Oh, you must have been mistaken!" she added at a sign from the
physician.
"Yes, you are right, how could she be there--it is impossible."
The countess tried to move forward, but the physician authoritatively
stopped her.
The burgomaster gently approached him. "My dear Freyer--what could I do
for you, have you no wish?"
"Nothing except to die! I would willingly have played until the end of
the performances--for your sake--but I am content."
The drawing-master brought in the food which the physician had ordered.
The latter went to him with a glass of champagne. "Drink this, Herr
Freyer; it will do you good, and then you can eat something."
But the sick man did not touch the glass: "Oh, no, I will take nothing
more."
"Why not? You must eat something, or you will not recover."
"I cannot"
"Certainly you can."
"Very well, I _will_ not."
"Freyer," cried Ludwig beseechingly, "don't be obstinate--what fancy
have you taken into your head?" And he again vainly offered the
strengthening draught.
"Shall I live if I drink it?" asked Freyer.
"Certainly,"
"Then I will not take it."
"Not even if I entreat you, Freyer?" asked the burgomaster.
"Oh, do not torture me--do not force me to live longer!" pleaded Freyer
with a heart-rending expression. "If you knew what I have suffered--you
would not grudge the release which God now sends me! I have vowed to be
faithful to my duty until death--did I not, sexton, on Daisenberger's
grave? I have held out as long as I could--now let me die quietly."
"Oh, my friend!" said the sexton, "must we lose you?" The strong man