On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
was weeping like a child. "Live for _us_, if not for yourself."
"No, sexton, if God calls me, I must not linger--for I have still
another duty. I have _lived_ for you--I must _die_ for another."
"But, Herr Freyer!" said the pastor kindly, "suppose that this other
person should not be benefitted by your death?"
Freyer looked as if he did not understand him.
"If this other of whom you speak--had come--to nurse and stay with
you?" the pastor continued.
Freyer raised himself a little--a blissful presentiment flitted over
his face like the coming of dawn.
"Suppose that your eyes did _not_ deceive you?" the burgomaster now
added gently.
"Am I not dreaming--was it true--was it possible?"
"If you don't excite yourself and will keep perfectly calm," said the
physician, "I will bring--your wife!"
"My--wife? You are driving me mad. I have no wife."
"No wife--you have _no wife_?" cried a voice as if from the depths of
an ocean of love and anguish, as the unhappy woman who had forced her
own husband to disown her, sank sobbing before him.
A cry--"my dove!" and his head drooped on her breast
A breathless silence pervaded the room. Every one's hands were clasped
in silent prayer. No one knew whether the moment was fraught with life
or death.
But it was to bring life--for the Christus must not die on the way to
the cross, and Mary Magdalene must still climb to its foot--the last,
steepest portion--that her destiny might be fulfilled.
The husband and wife were whispering together. The others modestly drew
back.
"And you wish to die? It was not enough that you vanished from my life
like a shadow--you wish to go out of the world also?" she sobbed. "Do
you believe that I could then find rest on earth or in Heaven?"
"Oh, dear one, I am happy. Let me die--I have prayed for it always! God
has mercifully granted it. When I am out of the world you will be a
widow, and can marry another without committing a sin."
"Oh, Heaven--Joseph! I will marry no other--I love no one save you."
He smiled mournfully: "You love me now because I am dying--had I lived,
you would have gone onward in the path of sin--and been lost. No, my
child, I must die, that you may learn, by my little sacrifice, to
understand the great atonement of Christ. I must sacrifice myself for
you, as Christ sacrificed himself for the sins of mankind."
"Oh, that is not needed. God has taken the will for the deed, and given
it the same power. Your lofty, patient suffering has conquered me. You
need not die. I mistook you for what you were not--a God, and did not
perceive what you _were_. Now I do know it. Forgive my folly. To save
me you need be nothing save a man--a genuine, noble, lovable man, as
you are--then no God will be required."
"Do you believe that?" Freyer looked at her with a divine expression:
"Do you believe you could be content with a _mortal man_! No, my child,
the same disappointment would follow as before. The flame that blazes
within your soul does not feed upon earthly matter. You need a God, and
your great heart will not rest until you have found Him. Therefore be
comforted: The false Christ will vanish and the true one will rise from
His grave."
"No, do not wrong me so, do not die, let me not atone for my sin to the
dead, but to the living! Oh, do not be cruel--do not punish me so
harshly. You are silent! You are growing paler still! Ah, you will go
and leave me standing _alone_ half way along the road, unable either to
move forward or back! Joseph, I have broken every bond with the duke,
have cast aside everything which separated us--have become a poor,
helpless woman, and you will abandon me--now, when I have given you my
whole existence, when I am nothing but your wife."
Freyer raised himself.
"Give me the wine--now I long to live." A universal movement of delight
ran through the group of friends, and the countess held the foaming cup
to his lips and supported his head with one hand, that he might drink.
Then she gave him a little food and arranged him in a more comfortable
position. "Come, let your wife nurse you!" she said so tenderly that
all the listeners were touched. Then she laid a cooling bandage on his
brow. "Ah, that does me good!" he said, but his eyes rested steadily on
hers and he seemed to be alluding to something other than the external
remedies, though these quickly produced their effect. His breathing
gradually became more regular, his eyes closed, weakness asserted
itself, but he slept soundly and quietly.
The physician withdrew to soothe the strangers waiting outside by an
encouraging report. Only Freyer's friends and the pastor remained. The
countess rose from beside the sleeper's couch and stretched her arms
towards Heaven: "Lend him to me, Merciful God! I have forfeited my
right to him--I say it in the presence of all these witnesses--but
be merciful and lend him to me long enough for me to atone for my
sin--that I may not be doomed to the torture of eternal remorse!" She
spoke in a low tone in order not to rouse the slumberer, but in a voice
which could be distinctly heard by the others. Her hands were clasped
convulsively, her eyes were raised as if to pierce to the presence of
God--her noble bearing expressed the energy of despair, striving with
eternity for the space of a moment.
"Oh, God--oh, God, leave him with me! Hold back Thy avenging
hand--grant a respite. Omnipotent One, first witness my
atonement--first try whether I may not be saved by mercy! Friends,
friends, pray with me!"
She clasped their hands as if imploring help. Her strength was failing.
Trembling, she sank beside Ludwig, and pressed her forehead, bedewed
with cold perspiration, against his arm.
All bared their heads and prayed in a low tone. Madeleine's breast
heaved in mortal anguish and, almost stifled by her suppressed tears,
she could only falter, half unconsciously: "Have pity upon us!"
Meanwhile the doctor had made all necessary preparations and was
waiting for the patient to wake in order to remove him to his home.
The murmured prayers had ceased and the friends gathered silently
around the bed. The countess again knelt beside the invalid, clasping
him in a gentle embrace. Her tears were now checked lest she might
disturb him, but they continued to flow in her heart. Her lips rested
on his hand in a long kiss--the hand which had once supported and
guided her now lay pale and thin on the coverlet, as if it would never
more have strength to clasp hers with a loving pressure.
"Are you weeping, dear wife?"
That voice! She raised her head, but could not meet the eyes which
gazed at her so tenderly. Dared _she_, the condemned one, enjoy the
bliss of that look? No, never! And, without raising an eyelash, she hid
her guilty brow with unutterable tenderness upon his breast. The feeble
hand was raised and gently stroked her cheek, touching it as lightly as
a withered leaf.
"Do not weep!" he whispered with the voice of a consoling angel: "Be
calm--God is good, He will be merciful to us also."
Oh, trumpet of the Judgment Day, what is thy blare to the sinner,
compared to the gentle words of pardoning love from a wounded breast?
The countess was overpowered by the mild, merciful judgment.--
A living lane had formed in front of the theatre. He was to be carried
home, rumor said, and the people were waiting in a dense throng to see
him. At last a movement ran through the ranks. "He is coming! Is he
alive? Yes, they say he is!"
Slowly and carefully the men bore out the litter on which he lay, pale
and motionless as a dead man. The pastor walked on one side, and on the
other, steadying his head, the countess. She could scarcely walk, but
she did not avert her eyes from him.
As on the way to Golgotha, low sobs greeted the little procession. "Oh,
dear, poor fellow! Ah, just one look, one touch of the hand," the
people pleaded. "Wait just one moment."
As if by a single impulse the bearers halted and the people pressed
forward with throbbing hearts, modestly, reverently touching the
hanging coverlet, and gazing at him with tearful eyes full of
unutterable grief.
The countess, with a beautiful impulse of humanity, gently drew his
hand from under the wraps and held it to the sorrowing spectators who
had waited so long, that they might kiss it--and every one who could
get near enough eagerly drank from the proffered beaker of love.
Grateful eyes followed the countess and she felt their benediction with
the joy of the saints when God lends their acts the power of divine
grace. She was now a beggar, yet never before had she been rich enough
to bestow such alms: "Yes, kiss his hand--he deserves it!" she
whispered, and her eyes beamed with a love which was not of this earth,
yet which blended _her_, the world, and everything it contained into a
single, vast, fraternal community!
Freyer smiled at her--and now she bore the sweet, tender gaze, for she
felt as if a time might come when she would again deserve it.
At last they reached the pretty quiet house where she had that morning
hired lodgings for him and herself. Mourning love had followed him to
the spot, the throng had increased so that the bearers could scarcely
get in with the litter. "Farewell--poor sufferer, may God be with you,"
fell from every lip as he was borne in and the door closed behind him.
The spacious room on the lower floor received the invalid. The landlady
had hurriedly prepared the bed and he was laid in it. As the soft
pillows arranged by careful hands yielded to the weary form, and his
wife bent over him, supporting his head on her arm--he glanced joyously
around the circle, unable to think or say anything except: "Oh, how
comfortable I am!" They turned away to hide their emotion.
The countess laid her head on the pillow beside him, no longer
restraining her tears, and murmuring in his ear: "Angel, you modest,
forgiving, loving angel!" She was silent--forcing herself to repress
the language of her heart, for the cry of her remorse might disturb the
feeble invalid. Yet he felt what moved her, he had always read her
inmost soul so long as she loved him--not until strangers came between
them did he fail to comprehend her. Now he felt what she must suffer in
her remorse and pitied her torture, he thought only of how he might
console her. But this moved her more than all the reproaches he had a
right to make, for the greater, the more noble his nature revealed
itself to be the greater her guilt became!
The friends were to take turns in helping the countess watch the
invalid through the night, and now left him. The doctor said that there
was no immediate danger and went away to get more medicines. When all
had gone, she knelt beside the bed and said softly, "Now I am yours! I
do not ask whether you will forgive me, for I see that you have already
done so--I ask only whether you will again take the condemned,
sin-laden woman to your heart? In my deed today I chose the fate of
poverty. I can offer you nothing more in worldly wealth, I can only
provide you with a simple home, work for you, nurse you, and atone by
lifelong love and fidelity for the wrong I have done you. Will you be
content with that?"
Freyer drew her toward him with all his feeble strength. Tears of
unutterable happiness were trickling down his cheeks. "I thank Thee,
God, Thou has given her to me to-day for the first time! Come, my
wife--place your fate trustfully in God's hands and your dear heart in
mine, and all will be well. He will be merciful and suffer me to live a
few years that I may work for you, not you for me. Oh, blissful words,
work for my wife, they make me well again. And now, while we are alone,
the first sacred kiss of conjugal love!"
He tried to raise his head, but she pressed it with gentle violence