On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
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Title: On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau
Author: Wilhelmine von Hillern
Translator: Mary J. Safford
Release date: July 15, 2011 [eBook #36725]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36725
Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE CROSS: A ROMANCE OF THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/oncrossaromance00saffgoog
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
[Illustration: "_Accursed be the hour I raised you from the dust to my
side_."--Page 339]
ON THE CROSS
A
Romance of the Passion Play at
Oberammergau
BY
Wilhelmine von Hillern
AND
Mary J. Safford
DREXEL BIDDLE, PUBLISHER
PHILADELPHIA
Copyright, 1902
BY
ANTHONY J. DREXEL BIDDLE.
* * *
PRESS OF DREXEL BIDDLE, PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
TO
HERR JOHANNES DIEMER,
THE RENOWNED DELIVERER OF THE PROLOGUE IN THE PASSION PLAYS
OF THE LAST DECADE, A TRUE SON OF AMMERGAU, IN WHOSE
UNASSUMING PERSON DWELLS THE CALM, DEEP SOUL OF
THE ARTIST, THE LOYAL SYMPATHIZING FRIEND, IN
WHOSE PEACEFUL HOME I FOUND THE QUIET
AND THE MOOD I NEEDED TO COMPLETE
THIS WORK, IT IS NOW DEDICATED,
WITH GRATEFUL ESTEEM, BY
THE AUTHORESS.
CONTENTS.
Introduction.
CHAPTER I.
A Phantom.
CHAPTER II.
Old Ammergau.
CHAPTER III.
Young Ammergau.
CHAPTER IV.
Expelled from the Play.
CHAPTER V.
Modern Pilgrims.
CHAPTER VI.
The Evening Before the Play.
CHAPTER VII.
The Passion Play.
CHAPTER VIII.
Freyer.
CHAPTER IX.
Signs and Wonders.
CHAPTER X.
In the Early Morning.
CHAPTER XI.
Mary and Magdalene.
CHAPTER XII.
Bridal Torches.
CHAPTER XIII.
Banished from Eden.
CHAPTER XIV.
Pieta.
CHAPTER XV.
The Crowing of the Cock.
CHAPTER XVI.
Prisoned.
CHAPTER XVII.
Flying from the Cross.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Marriage.
CHAPTER XIX.
At the Child's Bedside.
CHAPTER XX.
Conflicts.
CHAPTER XXI.
Unaccountable.
CHAPTER XXII.
Falling Stars.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Noli me Tangere.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Attempts to Rescue.
CHAPTER XXV.
Day is Dawning.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Last Support.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Between Poverty and Disgrace.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Parting.
CHAPTER XXIX.
In the Deserted House.
CHAPTER XXX.
The "Wiesherrle."
CHAPTER XXXI.
The Return Home.
CHAPTER XXXII.
To the Village.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Received Again.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
At Daisenberger's Grave.
CHAPTER XXXV.
The Watchword.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Memories.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Measure is Full.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
On the Way to the Cross.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Stations of Sorrow.
CHAPTER XL.
Near the Goal.
CONCLUSION.
From Illusion to Truth.
INTRODUCTION.
It was in the Garden of Gethsemane that the risen Son of God showed
Himself, as a simple gardener, to the penitent sinner. The miracle has
become a pious tradition. It happened long, long ago, and no eye has
ever beheld Him since. Even when the risen Lord walked among the men
and women of His own day, only those saw Him who wished to do so.
But those who wish to see Him, see Him now; and those who wish to seek
Him, find Him now.
The Garden of Gethsemane has disappeared--the hot sun of the East has
withered it. All things are subject to change. The surface of the earth
alters and where the olive tree once grew green and the cedar stretched
its leafy roof above the head of the Redeemer and the Penitent, there
is nothing now save dead, withered leafage.
But the Garden blooms once more in a cool, shady valley among the
German mountains. Modern Gethsemane bears the name of Oberammergau. As
the sun pursues its course from East to West, so the salvation which
came from the East has made its way across the earth to the West.
There, in the veins of young and vigorous nations, still flow the
living streams that water the seeds of faith on which the miracle is
nourished, and the stunted mountain pine which has sprung from the hard
rocks of the Ettal Mountain is transformed to a palm tree, the poor
habitant of the little mountain village to a God. It is change, and yet
constancy amid the change.
The world and its history also change in the passage of the centuries.
The event before which the human race sank prostrate, as the guards
once did when the risen Christ burst the gates of the tomb, gradually
passed into partial oblivion. The thunder with which the veil of the
temple was rent in twain died away in the misty distance; heaven closed
forever behind the ascended Lord, the stars pursued their old courses
in undisturbed regularity; revelations were silent. Men rubbed their
eyes as though waking from a dream and began to discuss what portion
was truth and what illusion. The strife lasted for centuries. One
tradition overthrew another, one creed crowded out another. With sword
in hand and the trumpet of the Judgment Day the _Ecclesia Militans_
established the dogma, enforced unity in faith. But peace did not last
long under the rule of the church. The Reformation again divided the
Christian world, the Thirty Years War, the most terrible religious
conflict the earth has ever witnessed began, and in the fury of the
battle the combatants forgot the _cause_ of the warfare. Amid the
streams of blood, the clouds of smoke rising from burning cities and
villages, the ruins of shattered altars, the cross, the holy emblem for
which the battle raged, vanished, and when it was raised again, it was
still but an emblem of warfare, no longer a symbol of peace.
There is a single spot of earth where, untouched by the tumult of the
world, sheltered behind the lofty, inhospitable wall of a high
mountain, the idea of Christianity has been preserved in all its
simplicity and purity--Oberammergau. As God once suffered the Saviour
of the World to be born in a manger, among poor shepherds, He seems to
have extended His protecting hand over this secluded nook and reserved
the poor mountaineers to repeat the miracle. Concealed behind the steep
Ettal mountain was a monastery where, from ancient times, the beautiful
arts had been sedulously fostered.
One of the monks was deeply grieved because, in the outside world,
iconoclasm was rudely shaking the old forms and, in blind fear, even
rejecting religious art as "Romish." As no holy image would be
tolerated; the Saviour and His Saints must disappear entirely from the
eyes of men. Then, in his distress, the inspiration came that a sacred
drama, performed by living beings, could produce a more powerful effect
than word or symbol. So it was determined in the monastery that one
should be enacted.
The young people in the neighborhood, who had long been schooled by the
influence of the learned monks to appreciate beauty, were soon trained
to act legends and biblical poems. With increasing skill they gained
more and more confidence, till at last their holy zeal led them to show
mankind the Redeemer Himself, the Master of the world, in His own
bodily form, saying to erring humanity; "Lo, thus He was and thus He
will be forever."
And while in the churches paintings and relics were torn from the walls
and crucifixes destroyed, the first Passion play was performed, A. D.
1634, under the open sky in the churchyard of Oberammergau--for this
spot, on account of its solemn associations, was deemed the fitting
place for the holy work. The disgraced image of love, defiled by blood
and flames, once more rose in its pure beauty! Living, breathing! The
wounds inflicted more than a thousand years before again opened, fresh
drops of blood trickled from the brow torn by its diadem of thorns,
again the "Continue ye in My love" fell from the pallid lips of the
Lamb of God, and what Puritanism had destroyed in its _dead_ form was
born anew in a _living one_. But, amid the confusion and roar of
battle, the furious yells of hate, no one heard the gentle voice in the
distant nook beyond the mountains.
The message of peace died away, the Crucified One shed His blood
unseen.
Years passed, the misery of the people constantly increased, lands were
ravaged, the ranks of the combatants thinned.
At last the warriors began to be paralyzed, the raging storm subsided
and pallid fear stared blankly at the foes who had at last gained their
senses--the plague, that terrible Egyptian Sphinx, lured by the odor of
corruption emanating from the long war, stole over the earth, and those
at whom she gazed with the black fiery eyes of her torrid zone, sank
beneath it like the scorched grass when the simoom sweeps over the
desert.
Silence fell, the silence of the grave, for wherever this spectre
stalks, death follows.
Fear reconciled enemies and made them forget their rancor in union
against the common foe, the cruel, invincible plague. They gazed around
them for some helping hand, and once more turned to that over which
they had so long quarrelled. Then amid the deathlike stillness of the
barren fields, the empty houses, the denuded churches, and the
desolated land, they at last heard the little bell behind the Ettal
mountain, which every decade summoned the Christian world to the
Passion Play, for this was the vow taken by the Ammergau peasants to
avert the plague and the divine wrath. Again the ever patient Saviour
extended His arms, crying: "Come unto Me, all ye who are weary and
heavy laden!" And they did come. They threw themselves at His feet, the
wearied, hunted earthlings, stained with dust and blood, and He
comforted and refreshed them, while they again recognized Him and
learned to understand the meaning of His sacrifice.
Those who thus saw Him and received the revelation announced it to
others, who flocked thither from far and near till the little
church-yard of Oberammergau became too narrow, and could no longer
contain the throngs; the open fields became a sacred theatre to receive
the pilgrims, who longed to behold the Redeemer's face.
And, strangely enough, all who took part in the sacred play, seemed
consecrated, the plague passed them by, Ammergau alone was spared.
So the pious seed grew slowly, often with periods when it stood still,
but the watchful eye can follow it in history.
Peace at last came to the world. Purer airs blew. The Egyptian hyena,
satiated, left the ravaged fields, new life bloomed from the graves,
and this new life knew naught of the pangs and sufferings of the old.
From the brutality and corruption of the long war, the new generation
longed for more refined manners, culture, and the pleasures of life.
But, as usual after such periods of deprivation and calamity, one
extreme followed another. The desire for more refined manners and
education led to hyperculture, the love of pleasure into epicureanism
and luxury, grace into coquetry, mirth into frivolity. Then came the
so-called age of gallantry. The foil took the place of the sword, the
lace jabot of the leather jerkin, the smoke of battle gave way to the
clouds of powder scattered by heads nodding in every direction.
Masked shepherds and shepherdesses danced upon the graves of a former
generation, a new Arcadia was created in apish imitation and peopled
with grimacing creatures who tripped about on tiptoe in their
high-heeled shoes. Instead of the mediaeval representations of martyrs
and emaciated saints appeared the nude gods and cupids of a Watteau and
his school. Grace took the place of majesty. Instead of moral law, men
followed the easy code of convenience and everything was allowable
which did not transgress its rules. Thus arose a generation of
thoughtless pleasure seekers, which bore within itself a moral
pestilence that, in contrast with the "Black Death," might be termed
the "Rosy Death" for it breathed upon the cheeks of all whom it
attacked the rosy flush of a fever which wasted more slowly, but none
the less surely.
And through this rouged, dancing, skipping age, with the click of its
high-heeled shoes, its rustling hooped petticoats, its amorous glances
and heaving bosoms, the chaste figure of the Man of Sorrows, with a
terrible solemnity upon his pallid brow, again and again trod the stage
of Ammergau, and whoever beheld Him dropped the flowing bowl of
pleasure, while the laugh died on his lips.
Again history and the judgment of the world moved forward. The "Rosy
Death" had decomposed and poisoned all the healthful juices of society
and corrupted the very heart of the human race--morality, faith, and
philosophy, everything which makes men manly, had gradually perished
unobserved in the thoughtless whirl. The tinsel and apish civilisation
no longer sufficed to conceal the brute in human nature. It shook off
every veil and stood forth in all its nakedness. The modern deluge, the
French Revolution burst forth. Murder, anarchy, the delirium of fever
swept over the earth in every form of horror.
Again came a change, a transformation to the lowest depths of
corruption. Grace now yielded to brutality, beauty to ugliness, the
divine to the cynical. Altars were overthrown, religion was abjured,
the earth trembled under the mass of destroyed traditions.
But from the turmoil of the throng, fiercely rending one another, from
the smoke and exhalations of this conflagration of the world, yonder in
the German Garden of Gethsemane again rose victoriously, like a
Ph[oe]nix from its ashes, the denied, rejected God, and the undefiled
sun of Ammergau wove a halo of glory around the sublime figure which
hung high on the cross.
It was a quiet, victory, of which the frantic mob were ignorant; for
they saw only the foe confronting them, not the one battling above. The
latter was vanquished long ago, He was deposed, and that settled the
matter. The people in their sovereignty can depose and set up gods at
pleasure, and when once dethroned, they no longer exist; they are
hurled into Tartarus. And as men can not do without a god, they create
an idol.
The country groaned beneath the iron stride of the Emperor and, without
wishing or knowing it, he became the avenger of the God in whose place
he stood. For, as the Thirty Years War ended under the scourge of the
pestilence, and the age of mirth and gallantry under the lash of
the Revolution, the Revolution yielded to the third scourge, the
self-created idol!
He, the man with compressed lips and brow sombre with thought, ruled
the unchained elements, became lord of the anarchy, and dictated laws
to a universe. But with iron finger he tore open the veins of humanity
to mark upon the race the brand of slavery. The world bled from a
thousand wounds, and upon each he marked the name "Napoleon."
Then, wan as the moon floats in the sky when the glow of the setting
sun is blazing in the horizon, the sovereign of the world in his bloody
splendor confronted the pallid shadow of the Crucified One, also robed
in a royal mantle, still wet with the blood He had voluntarily shed.
They gazed silently at each other--but the usurper turned pale.
At last, at the moment he imagined himself most like Him, God hurled
the rival god into the deepest misery and disgrace. The enemy of the
world was conquered, and popular hatred, so long repressed, at last
freed from the unbearable restraint, poured forth upon the lonely grave
at St. Helena its foam of execration and curses. Then the conqueror in
Oberammergau extended His arms in pardon, saying to him also: "Verily I
say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise."
A time of peace now dawned, the century of _thought_. After the great
exertions of the war of liberation, a truce in political life followed,
and the nations used it to make up for what they had lost in the
development of civilization during the period of political strife. A
flood of ideas inundated the world. All talent, rejoicing in the mental
activity which had so long lain dormant, was astir. There was rivalry
and conflict for the prize in every department. The rising generation,
conscious of newly awakening powers, dared enterprise after enterprise
and with each waxed greater. With increasing production, the power of
assimilation also increased. Everything grand created in other
centuries was drawn into the circle of their own nation as if just
discovered. That for which the enlightened minds of earlier days had
vainly toiled, striven, bled, now bloomed in luxuriant harvests, and
the century erected monuments to those who had been misjudged and
adorned them with the harvest garland garnered from the seeds which
they had sowed in tears.
What Galvani and Salomon de Caeus, misunderstood and unheard, had
planned, now made their triumphal passage across the earth as a panting
steam engine or a flashing messenger of light, borne by and bearing
ideas.
The century which produced a Schiller and a Goethe first understood a
Shakespeare, Sophocles and Euripides rose from the graves where they
had lain more than a thousand years, archaeology brought the buried
world of Homer from beneath the earth, a Canova, a Thorwaldsen, a
Cornelius, Kaulbach, and all the great masters of the Renaissance of
our time, took up the brushes and chisels of Phidias, Michael Angelo,
Raphael, and Rubens, which had so long lain idle. What Aristotle had
taught a thousand, and Winckelmann and Lessing a hundred years before,
the knowledge of the laws of art, the appreciation of the beautiful,
was no longer mere dead capital in the hands of learned men, but
circulated in the throbbing veins of a vigorously developing
civilization; it demanded and obtained the highest goal.
The circle between the old and the new civilization has closed, every
chasm has been bridged. There is an alternate action of old and new
forces, a common labor of all the nations and the ages, as if there was
no longer any division of time and space, as if there was but one
eternal art, one eternal science. Ascending humanity has trodden matter
under foot, conquered science, made manufactures useful, and
transfigured art.
But this light which has so suddenly flamed through the world also
casts its shadows. Progress in art and science matures the judgment,
but judgment becomes criticism and criticism negation. The dualism
which permeates all creation, the creative and the destructive power,
the principle of affirmation and of denial, cannot be shut out even
now, but must continue the old contest which has never yet been
decided. Critical analysis opposes faith, materialism wars against
idealism, pessimism contends with optimism. The human race has reached
the outermost limit of knowledge, but this does not content it in its
victorious career, it wishes to break through and discover _the God_
concealed behind. Even the heart of a God must not escape the scalpel
which nothing withstood. But the barrier is impenetrable. And one
party, weary of the fruitless toil, pulls back the aspiring ones.
"Down to matter, whence you came. What are you seeking? Science has
attained the highest goal, she has discovered the protoplasm whence all
organism proceeded. What is the Creator of modern times? A
physiological--chemical, vital function within the substance of a cell.
Will ye pray to this, suffer for this, ye fools?"
Others turn in loathing from this cynical interpretation of scientific
results and throw themselves into the arms of beauty, seeking in it the
divinity, and others still wait, battling between earth and heaven, in
the dim belief of being nearest to the goal.
It is a tremendous struggle, as though the earth must burst under the
enormous pressure of power demanding room, irreconcilable contrasts.
Then amid the heat of the lecture rooms, the throng of students of art
and science, comes a long-forgotten voice from the days of our
childhood! And the straining eyes suddenly turn from the teachers and
the dissecting tables, from the glittering visions of art and the
material world to the stage of Oberammergau and the Passion Play.
There stands the unassuming figure with the crown of thorns and the
sorrowful, questioning gaze. And with one accord their hearts rush to
meet Him and, as the son who has grown rich in foreign lands, after
having eaten and enjoyed everything, longs to return to the poverty of
his home and falls repentantly at the feet of his forsaken father, the
human race, in the midst of this intoxication of knowledge and
pleasure, sinks sobbing before the pale flower of Christianity and
longingly extends its arms toward the rude wooden cross on which it
blooms!
That powerful thinker, Max Mueller, says in his comparative study of
religions:[1] "When do we feel the blessings of our country more warmly
and truly than when we return from abroad? It is the same with regard
to religion." That fact is apparent here! It is an indisputable verity
that, at the precise period when art and science have attained their
highest stages of development, the Oberammergau Passion Play enjoys a
degree of appreciation never bestowed before, that during this critical
age, from decade to decade, people flock to the Passion Play in ever
increasing throngs. Not only the uncultivated and ignorant, nay, the
most cultured--artists and scholars, statesmen and monarchs. The poor
village no longer has room to shelter all its guests; it is positively
startling to see the flood of human beings pour in on the evening
before the commencement of the play, stifling, inundating everything.
And then it is marvellous to notice how quiet it is on the morning of
the play, as it flows into the bare room called the theatre, how it
seems as it were to grow calm, as if every storm within or without was
subdued under the influence of those simple words, now more than two
thousand years old. How wonderful it is to watch the people fairly
holding their breath to listen to the simple drama for seven long hours
without heeding the time which is far beyond the limit our easily
wearied nerves are accustomed to bear.
What is it, for whose sake the highest as well as the lowest, the
richest and the poorest, prince and peasant, would sleep on a layer of
straw, without a murmur, if no bed could be had? Why will the most
pampered endure hunger and thirst, the most delicate heat and cold, the
most timid fearlessly undertake the hard journey across the Ettal
mountain? Is it mere curiosity to hear a number of poor wood-carvers,
peasants, and wood-cutters repeat under the open sky, exposed to sun
and rain, in worse German than is heard at school the same old story
which has already been told a thousand times, as the enemies of the
Passion Play say? Would this bring people every ten years from half the
inhabited world, from far and near, from South and North, from the
mountains and the valleys, from palaces and huts, across sea and land?
Certainly not? What is it then? A miracle?
Whoever has seen the Passion Play understands it, but it is difficult
to explain the mystery to those who have not.
The deity remains concealed from our earthly vision and unattainable,
like the veiled statue of Sais. Every attempt to raise this veil by
force is terribly avenged.
What is gained by those modern Socinians and Adorantes who, with
ill-feigned piety, seek to drag the mystery to light and make the God a
_human being_, in order to worship in the wretched puppet _themselves_?
Even if they beheld Him face to face, they would still see themselves
only, and He would cry: "You are like the spirit which you understand,
not me."
And what do the Pantheists gain who make man _God_, in order to embrace
in Him the unattainable? Sooner or later they will perceive that they
have mistaken the _effects_ for the _cause_, and the form for the
essence. Loathing and disappointment will be their lot, as it is the
lot of all who have nothing but--human beings.
But those to whom the visible is only the _symbol_ of the _invisible_
which teaches them from the effect to learn the cause, will, with
unerring logical correctness, pass from the form to the essence, from
the _illusion_ to the _truth_.
_That_ is the marvel of the modern Gethsemane, which this book will
narrate.
CHAPTER I.
A PHANTOM.
Solemn and lofty against the evening sky towers the Kofel, the
land-mark and protecting rock-bulwark of Oberammergau, bearing aloft
its solitary cross, like a threatening hand uplifted in menace to
confront an advancing foe with the symbol of victory.
Twilight is gathering, and the dark shadow of the mighty protector
stretches far across the quiet valley. The fading glow of sunset casts
a pallid light upon the simple cross which has stood on the mountain
peak for centuries, frequently renewed but always of the same size, so
that it can be seen a long distance off by the throngs who journey
upward from the valley, gazing longingly across the steep, inhospitable
mountains toward the goal of the toilsome pilgrimage.
It is Friday. A long line of carriages is winding like a huge serpent
up the Ettal mountain. Amid the throng, two very handsome landaus are
especially conspicuous. The first is drawn by four horses in costly
harnesses adorned with a coronet, which prance gaily in the slow
progress, as if the ascent of the Ettal mountain was but pastime for
animals of their breed. In the equipage, which is open, sit a lady and
a gentleman, pale, listless, uninterested in their surroundings and
apparently in each other; the second one contains a maid, a man
servant, and on the box the courier, with the pompous, official manner,
which proclaims to the world that the family he has the honor of
serving and in whose behalf he pays the highest prices, is an
aristocratic one. The mistress of this elegant establishment, spite of
her downcast eyes and almost lifeless air, is a woman of such
remarkable beauty that it is apparent even amidst the confusion of
veils and wraps. Blonde hair, as soft as silk, clusters in rings around
her brow and diffuses a warm glow over a face white as a tea rose,
intellectual, yet withal wonderfully, tender and sensuous in its
outlines. Suddenly, as though curious to penetrate the drooping lids
and see the eyes they concealed, the sun bursts through a rift in the
clouds, throwing a golden bridge of rays from mountain to mountain. Now
the lashes are raised to return the greeting, revealing sparkling dark
eyes of a mysterious color, varying every instant as they follow the
shimmering rays that glide along the cliff. Then something flashes from
a half-concealed cave and the beams linger a moment on a pale face. It
is an image of Christ carved in wood which, with uplifted hand, bids
the new comers welcome. But those who are now arriving do not
understand its language, the greeting remains unanswered.
The sunbeams glide farther on as if saying, "If this is not the Christ
you are seeking, perhaps it is he?" And now--they stop. On a rugged
peak, illumined by a halo of light, stands a figure, half concealed by
the green branches, gazing with calm superiority at the motley, anxious
crowd below. He has removed his hat and, heated by the rapid walk, is
wiping the perspiration from his brow. Long black locks parted in the
middle, float back from a grave, majestic face with a black beard and
strangely mournful black, far-seeing eyes. The hair, tossed by the
wind, is caught by a thorny branch which sways above the prematurely
furrowed brow. The sharp points glow redly in the brilliant sunset
light, as if crimsoned with blood from the head which rests dreamily
against the trunk. A tremor runs through the form of the woman below;
she suddenly sits erect, as though roused from sleep. The wandering
rays which sought her eyes also lead her gaze to those of the solitary
man above, and on this golden bridge two sparkling glances meet. Like
two pedestrians who cannot avoid each other on a narrow path, they look
and pause. They grasp and hold each other--one must yield, for neither
will let the other pass.
Then the sunbeam pales, the bridge has fallen, and the apparition
vanishes in the forest shadows.
"Did you see that?" the lady asked her companion, who had also glanced
up at the cliff.
"What should I have seen?"
"Why--that--that--" she paused, uncertain what words to choose. She was
going to say, "that man up there," but the sentence is too prosaic, yet
she can find no other and says merely, "him up there!" Her companion,
glancing skyward, shakes his head.
"_Him_ up there! I really believe, Countess, that the air of Ammergau
is beginning to affect you. Apparently you already have religious
hallucinations--or we will say, in the language of this hallowed soil,
heavenly visions!"
The countess leans silently back in her corner--the cold, indifferent
expression returns to the lips which just parted in so lovely a smile.
"But what did you see? At least tell me, since I am not fortunate
enough to be granted such visions," her companion adds with kindly
irony. "Or was it too sublime to be communicated to such a base
worldling as I?"
"Yes," she says curtly, covering her eyes with her hand, as if to shut
out the fading sunset glow in order to recall the vision more
distinctly. Then she remains silent.
Night gradually closes in, the panting train of horses has reached the
village. Now the animals are urged into a trot and the drivers turn the
solemn occasion into a noisy tumult. The vehicles jolt terribly in the
ruts, the cracking of whips, the rattle of wheels, the screams of
frightened children and poultry, the barking of dogs, blend in a
confused din, and that nothing may be wanting to complete it, a howling
gust of wind sweeps through the village, driving the drifting clouds
into threatening masses.
"This is all we lacked--rain too!" grumbled the gentleman. "Shall I
have the carriage closed?"
"No," replied the Countess, opening her umbrella. "Who would have
thought it; the sun was shining ten minutes ago!"
"Yes, the weather changes rapidly in the mountains. I saw the shower
rising. While you were admiring some worthy wood-cutter up yonder as a
heavenly apparition, I was watching the approaching tempest." He draws
the travelling rug, which has slipped down, closer around the lady and
himself. "Come what may, I am resigned; when we are in Rome, we must
follow the Roman customs. Who would not go through fire and water for
you, Countess?" He tries to take her hand, but cannot find it among the
shawls and wraps. He bites his lips angrily; he had expected that the
hand he sought would gratefully meet his in return for so graceful an
expression of loyalty! Large drops of rain beat into his face.
"Not even a clasp of the hand in return for the infernal journey to
this peasant hole," he mutters.
The carriages thunder past the church, the flowers and crosses on the
graves in the quiet church-yard tremble with the shaking of the ground.
The lamps in the parsonage are already lighted, the priest comes to the
window and gazes quietly at the familiar spectacle. "Poor travellers!
Out in such a storm!"
One carriage after another turns down a street or stops before a house.
The Countess and her companion alone have not yet reached their
destination. Meantime it has grown perfectly dark. The driver is
obliged to stop to shut up the carriage and light the lantern, for the
rain and darkness have become so dense and the travellers are drenched.
An icy wind, which always accompanies a thunderstorm in the mountain,
blows into their faces till they can scarcely keep their eyes open. The
servant, unable to see in the gloom, is clumsy in closing the carriage,
the hand-bags fall down upon the occupants; the driver can scarcely
hold the horses, which are frightened by the crowds in pursuit of
lodgings. He is not familiar with the place and, struggling to restrain
the plunging four-in-hand, enquires the way in broken sentences from
the box, and only half catches the answers, which are indistinct in the
tumult. Meantime the other servants have arrived. The Countess orders
the courier to drive on with the second carriage and take possession of
the rooms which have been engaged. The man, supposing it is an easy
matter to find the way in so small a place, moves forward. The Countess
can scarcely control her ill humor.
"An abominable journey--the horses overheated by the ascent of the
mountain and now this storm. And the lamps won't burn, the wind
constantly blows them out. You were right, Prince, we ought to have
taken a hired--" She does not finish the sentence, for the ray
from one of the carriage lamps, which has just been lighted with much
difficulty, falls upon a swiftly passing figure, which looks almost
supernaturally tall in the uncertain glimmer. Long, black locks,
dripping with moisture, are blown by the wind from under his
broad-brimmed hat. He has evidently been surprised by the storm without
an umbrella and is hurrying home--not timidly and hastily, like a
person to whom a few drops of rain, more or less, is of serious
importance, but rather like one who does not wish to be accosted. The
countess cannot see his face, he has already passed, but she
distinguishes the outlines of the slender, commanding figure in the
dark dress, noticing with a rapid glance the remarkably elastic gait,
and an involuntary: "There he goes again!" escapes her lips aloud.
Obeying a sudden impulse, she calls to the servant: "Quick, ask the
gentleman yonder the way to the house of Andreas Gross, where we are
going."
The servant follows the retreating figure a few steps and shouts,
"Here, you--" The stranger pauses a moment, half turns his head, then,
as if the abrupt summons could not possibly be meant for _him_, moves
proudly on without glancing back a second time.
The servant timidly returns. A feeling of shame overwhelms the
countess, as though she had committed the blunder of ordering him to
address a person of high rank travelling incognito.
"The gentleman wouldn't hear me," says the lackey apologetically, much
abashed. "Very well," his mistress answers, glad that the darkness
conceals her blushes. A flash of lightning darts from the sky and a
sudden peal of thunder frightens the horses. "Drive on," the countess
commands; the lackey springs on the box, the carriage rolls forward--a
few yards further and the dark figure once more appears beside the
vehicle, walking calmly on amid the thunder and lightning, and merely
turns his head slightly toward the prancing horses.
The equipage dashes by--the countess leans silently back on the
cushions, and shows no further desire to look out.
"Tell me, Countess Madeleine," asks the gentleman whom she has just
addressed as 'Prince,' "what troubles you today?"
The countess laughs. "Dear me, how solemnly you put the question! What
should trouble me?"
"I cannot understand you," the prince continued. "You treat me coldly
and grow enthusiastic over a vision of the imagination which already
draws from you the exclamation: 'There he is _again!_' I cannot help
thinking what an uncertain possession is the favor of a lady whose
imagination kindles so easily."
"This is charming," the countess tried to jest. "My prince jealous--of
a phantom?"
"That is just it. If a _phantom_ can produce such variations in the
temperature of your heart toward me, how must my hopes stand?"
"Dear Prince, you know that whether with or without a phantom, I could
never yet answer this question which Your Highness frequently
condescends to ask me."
"I believe, Countess, that one always stands between us! You pursue
some unknown ideal which you do not find in me, the realist, who has
nothing to offer you save prosaic facts--his hand, his principality,
and an affection for which unhappily he lacks poetic phrases."
"You exaggerate, Prince, and are growing severe. There is a touch of
truth--I am always honest--yet, as you know, you are the most favored
of all my suitors. Still it is true that an unknown disputes precedence
with you. This rival is but the man of my imagination--but the world
contains no one like my ideal, so you have nothing to fear."
"What ideal do you demand, Countess, that no one can attain it?"
"Ah! a very simple one, yet you conventional natures will never
understand it. It is the simplicity of the lost Paradise to which you
can never return. I am by nature a lover of the ideal--I am
enthusiastic and need enthusiasm; but you call me a visionary when I am
in the most sacred earnest. I yearn for a husband who believes in my
ideal, I want no one from whom I must conceal it in order to avoid
ridicule, and thus be unable to be true to my highest self. He whom my
soul seeks must be at once a man and a child--a man in character and a
child in heart. But where in our modern life is such a person to be
found? Where is gentleness without feeble sentimentality? Where is
there enthusiasm without fantastic vagueness, where simplicity of heart
without narrowness of mind? Whoever possesses a manly character and a
strong intellect cannot escape the demands which science and politics
impose, and this detracts from the emotional life, gives prominent
development to concrete thought, makes men realistic and critical. But
of all who suffer from these defects of our time, you are the best,
Prince!" she adds, smilingly.'
"That is sorry comfort," murmurs the prince. "It is a peculiar thing to
have an invisible rival; who will guarantee that some person may not
appear who answers to the description?"
"That is the reason I have not yet given you my consent," replies the
countess, gravely.
Her companion sighs heavily, makes no reply, but gazes steadfastly into
the raging storm. Alter a time he says, softly, "If I did not love you
so deeply, Countess Madeleine--"
"You would not bear with me so long, would you?" asks the countess,
holding out her hand as if beseeching pardon.
This one half unconscious expression of friendship disarms the
irritated man.--He bends over the slender little hand and raises it
tenderly to his lips.
"She must yet be mine!" he says under his breath, by way of
consolation, like all men whose hopes are doubtful. "I will even dare
the battle with a phantom."
CHAPTER II.
OLD AMMERGAU.
At last, alter a long circuit and many enquiries, the goal was gained.
The dripping, sorely shaken equipage stopped with two wheels in a ditch
filled with rain water, whose overflow flooded the path to the house.
The courier and maid seemed to have missed their way, too, for the
second carriage was not there. People hurried out of the low doorway
shading small flickering candles with their hands. The countess shrank
back. What strange faces these peasants had! An old man with a terribly
hang-dog countenance, long grey hair, a pointed Jewish beard, sharp
hooked nose, and sparkling eyes! And two elderly women, one short and
fat, with prominent eyes and black curling hair, the other a tall,
thin, odd-looking person with tangled coal-black hair, hooked nose, and
glittering black eyes.
In the mysterious shadows cast by the wavering lights upon the sharply
cut faces, the whole group looked startlingly like a band of gypsies.
"Oh! are these Ammergau people?" whispered the countess in a
disappointed tone.
"Does Gross, the wood-carver, live here?" the prince enquired.
"Yes," was the reply. "Gross, the stone-cutter. Have you engaged rooms
here?"
"We wrote from Tegernsee for lodgings. The Countess von Wildenau,"
answered the prince.
"Oh yes, yes! Everything is ready! The lady will lodge with us; the
carriage and servants can go to the old post-house. I have the honor to
bid you good evening," said the old man. "I am sorry you have had such
bad weather. But we have a great deal of rain here."
The prince alighted--the water splashed high under his feet.
"Oh Sephi, bring a board, quick; the countess cannot get out here!"
cried the old man with eager deprecation of the discomfort threatening
the lady. Sephi, the tall, thin woman, dragged a plank from the garden,
while a one-eyed dog began to bark furiously.
The plank was laid down, but instantly sunk under the water, and the
countess was obliged to wade through the flood. As she alighted, she
felt as if she should strike her head against the edge of the
overhanging roof--the house was so low. Fresco paintings, dark with
age, appeared to stretch and writhe in distorted shapes in the
flickering light. The place seemed more and more dismal to the
countess.
"Shall I carry you across?" asked the prince.
"Oh no!" she answered reprovingly, while her little foot sought the
bottom of the pool. The ice-cold water covered her delicate boot to the
ankle. She had been so full of eager anticipation, in such a poetic
mood, and prosaic reality dealt her a blow in the face. She shivered as
she walked silently through the water.
"Come in, your rooms are ready," said the old man cheeringly.
They passed through a kitchen black with myriads of flies, into an
apartment formerly used as the workshop, now converted into a parlor.
Two children were asleep on an old torn sofa. In one corner lay sacks
of straw, prepared for couches, the owners of the house considered it a
matter of course that they should have no beds during the Passion. A
smoking kerosene lamp hung from, the dark worm-eaten wooden ceiling,
diffusing more smoke than light. The room was so low that the countess
could scarcely stand erect, and besides the ceiling had sunk--in the
dim, smoke-laden atmosphere the beams threatened to fall at any moment.
A sense of suffocation oppressed the new-comer. She was utterly
exhausted, chilled, nervous to the verge of weeping. Her white teeth
chattered. She shivered with cold and discomfort. Her host opened a low
door into a small room containing two beds, a table, an old-fashioned
dark cupboard, and two chairs.
"There," he cried in a tone of great satisfaction, "that is your
chamber. Now you can rest, and if you want anything, you need only call
and one of my daughters will come in and wait upon you."
"Yes, my good fellow, but where am _I_ to lodge?" asked the prince.
"Oh--then you don't belong together? In that case the countess must
sleep with another lady, and the gentleman up here."
He pointed to a little stair-case in the corner which, according to the
custom in old peasant houses, led from one room through a trap-door
into another directly above it.
"But I can't sleep _there_, it would inconvenience the lady," said the
prince. "Have you no other rooms?"
"Why yes; but they are engaged for to-morrow," replied Andreas Gross,
while the two sisters stood staring helplessly.
"Then give me the rooms and send the other people away."
"Oh! I can't do that, sir.--They are promised."
"Good Heavens! Ill pay you twice, ten times as much."
"Why, sir, if you paid me twenty times the price, I could not do it; I
must not break my promise!" said the old man with gentle firmness.
"Ah," thought the prince, "he wants to screw me--but I'll manage that,
Countess, excuse me a few minutes while I look for another lodging."
"For Heaven's sake, try to find one for me, too. I would rather spend
the night in the carriage than stay here!" replied the countess in
French.
"Yes, it is horrible! but it will not be difficult to find something
better. Good-bye!" he answered in the same language.
"Don't leave me alone with these people too long. Come back soon; I am
afraid," she added, still using the French tongue.
"Really?" the prince answered, laughing; but a ray of pleasure sparkled
in his eyes.
Meanwhile, the little girl who was asleep on the sofa had waked and now
came into the room.
The countess requested every one to retire that she might rest, and the
peasants modestly withdrew. But when she tried to fasten the door, it
had neither lock nor bolt, only a little wire hook which slipped into a
loose ring.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, startled. "I cannot lock it."
"You need have no anxiety," replied the old man soothingly, "we sleep
in the next room." But the vicinity of those strange people, when she
could not lock the door, was exactly what the countess feared.
She slipped the miserable wire hook into its fastening and sat down on
one of the beds, which had no mattresses--nothing but sacking.
Covering her face with her hands, she gave free course to indignant
tears. She still wore her hat and cloak, which she had not ventured to
take off, from a vague feeling of being encompassed by perils whence
she might need to fly at any moment. In such a situation, surely it was
safer not to lay aside one's wraps. If the worst came, she would remain
so all night. To go to bed in a house where the roof might fall and
such strange figures were stealing about, was too great a risk. Beside
the bed on which the countess sat was a door, which, amid all the
terrors, she had not noticed. Now it seemed as though she heard a
scraping noise like the filing of iron. Then came hollow blows and a
peculiar rattling. Horrible, incomprehensible sounds! Now a blow fell
upon the door, whose fastening was little better than the other. And
now another.
"The very powers of hell are let loose here," cried the countess,
starting up. Her cold, wet feet seemed paralyzed, her senses were on
the verge of failing. And she was alone in this terrible strait. Where
were the servants? Perhaps they had been led astray, robbed and
murdered--and meanwhile the storm outside was raging in all its fury.
There came another attempt to burst the door which, under two crashing
blows, began to yield. The countess, as if in a dream, rushed to the
workshop and, almost fainting, called to her aid the uncanny people
there--one terror against another. With blanched lips she told them
that some one had entered the house, that some madman or fugitive from
justice was trying to get in.
"Oh! that is nothing," said Andreas, with what seemed to the terrified
woman a fiendish smile, and walking straight to the door, while the
countess shrieked aloud, opened it, and--a head was thrust in. A mild,
big, stupid face stared at the light with wondering eyes and snorted
from wide pink nostrils at the strange surroundings. A bay horse--a
good-natured cart horse occupied the next room to the Countess
Wildenau!
"You see the criminal. He is a cribber, that is the cause of the
horrible noises you heard."
The trembling woman stared at the mild, stupid equine face as though it
was a heavenly vision--yet spite of her relief and much as she loved
horses, she could not have gone to bed comfortably, since as the door
was already half broken down by the elephantine hoofs of the worthy
brute, there was a chance that during the night, lured by the aromatic
odor of the sea-weed, which formed the stuffing of the bed, the bay
might mistake the countess' couch for a manger and rouse her somewhat
rudely with his snuffing muzzle.
"Oh, we'll make that all right at once," said Andreas. "We'll fasten
him so that he can't get free again, and the carter comes at four in
the morning, then you will not be disturbed any more."
"After not having closed my eyes all night," murmured the countess,
following the old man to see that he fastened the horse securely. Yes,
the room which opened from here by a door with neither lock nor
threshold was a stable. Several frightened hens flew from the
straw--this, too. "When the horse has left the stable the cocks will
begin to crow. What a night after the fatigues of the day!" The old man
smiled with irritating superiority, and said:
"Yes, that is the way in the country."
"No, I won't stay here--I would rather spend the night in the carriage.
How can people exist in this place, even for a day," thought the
countess.
"Won't you have something to eat? Shall my daughter make a
schmarren?"[2]
"A schmarren! In that kitchen, with those flies." The countess felt a
sense of loathing.
"No, thank you." Even if she was starving, she could not eat a mouthful
in this place.
The bay was at last tied and, for want of other occupation, continued
to gnaw his crib and to suck the air, a proceeding terribly trying to
the nerves of his fair neighbor in the next room. At last--oh joy,
deliverance--the second carriage rattled up to the house, bringing the
maid and the courier.
"Come in, come in!" called the countess from the window. "Don't have
any of the luggage taken off. I shall not stay here."
The two servants entered with flushed faces.
"Where in the world have you been so long?" asked their mistress,
imperiously, glad to be able, at last, to vent her ill-humor on some
one.
"The driver missed the way," stammered the courier, casting a side
glance at the blushing maid. The countess perceived the situation at a
glance and was herself again. Fear and timidity, all her nervous
weakness vanished before the pride of the offended mistress, who had
been kept waiting an hour, at whose close the tardy servants entered
with faces whose confusion plainly betrayed that so long a delay was
needless.
She drew herself up to her full height, feminine fears forgotten in the
pride of the lady of rank.
"Courier, you are dismissed--not another word!"
"Then I beg Your Highness to discharge me, too," said the excited maid,
thus betraying herself. A contemptuous glance from the countess rested
upon the culprit, but without hesitation, she said, quietly:
"Very well. You can both go to the steward for your wages. Good
evening."
Both left the room pale and silent. They had not expected this
dismissal, but they knew their mistress' temper and were aware that not
another word would be allowed, that no excuse or entreaty would avail.
The countess, too, was in no pleasant mood. She was left here--without
a maid. For the first time in her life she would be obliged to wait
upon herself, unpack all those huge trunks and bags. How could she do
it? She was so cold and so weary, too, and she did not even know which
of the numerous bags contained dry shoes and stockings. Was she to pull
out everything, when she must do the repacking herself? For now she
must certainly go to another house, among civilized people, where she
could have servants and not be so utterly alone. Oh, if only she had
not come to this Ammergau--it was a horrible place! One would hardly
purchase the salvation of the world at the cost of such an evening. It
was terrible to be in this situation--and without a maid!
And, as trivial things find even the loftiest women fainthearted
because they are matters of nerve, and not of character, the lady who
had just confronted her servants so haughtily sank down on the bed
again and wept like a child.
Some one tapped lightly on the door of the workshop. The countess
opened it, and the short, stout sister timidly entered.
"Pardon me, Your Highness, we have just heard that you have discharged
your maid and courier, so I wanted to ask whether my sister or I could
be of any service? Perhaps we might unpack a little?"
"Thank you--I don't wish to spend the night here and hope that my
companion will bring news that he has found other accommodations. I
will pay whatever you ask, but I can't possibly stay. Ask your father
what he charges, I'll give whatever you wish--only let me go."
The old man was summoned.
"Why certainly, Countess, you can be entirely at ease on that score; if
you don't like staying with us, that need not trouble you. You will
have nothing to pay--only you must be quick or you will find no
lodgings, they are very hard to get now."
"Yes, but you must have some compensation. Just tell me what I am to
give."
"Nothing, Countess. We do not receive payment for what is not eaten!"
replied Andreas Gross with such impressive firmness that the lady
looked at him in astonishment. "The Ammergau people do not make a
business of renting lodgings, Countess; that is done only by the
foreign speculators who wish to make a great deal of money at this
time, and alas! bring upon Ammergau the reputation of extortion! We
natives of the village do it for the sake of having as many guests
witness the play as possible, and are glad if we meet our expenses. We
expect nothing more."
The countess suddenly saw the "hang-dog" face in a very different
light! It must have been the dusk which had deceived her. She now
thought it an intellectual and noble one, nay the wrinkled countenance,
the long grey locks, and clear, penetrating eyes had an aspect of
patriarchal dignity. She suddenly realized that these people must have
had the masks which their characters require bestowed by nature, not
painted with rouge, and thus the traits of the past unconsciously
became impressed upon the features. In the same way, among professional
actors, the performer who takes character roles can easily be
distinguished from the lover.
"Do you act too?" she asked with interest.
"I act Dathan, the Jewish trader," he said proudly. "I have been in the
Play sixty years, for when I was a child three years old I sat in Eve's
lap in the tableaux." The countess could not repress a smile and old
Andreas' face also brightened.
The little girl, a daughter of the short, plump woman, peeped through
the half open door, gazing with sparkling eyes at the lovely lady.
"Whose child is the little one?" asked the countess, noticing her soft
curb and beaming eyes.
"She is my grand-daughter, the child of my daughter, Anna. Her father
was a foreigner. He ran away, leaving his wife and two children in
poverty. So I took them all three into my house again."
The countess looked at the old man's thin, worn figure, and then at the
plump mother and child.
"Who supports them?"
"Oh, we help one another," replied Andreas evasively. "We all work
together. My son, the drawing teacher, does a great deal for us, too.
We could not manage without him." Then interrupting himself with a
startled look, as if he might have been overheard, he added, "but I
ought not to have said that--he would be very angry if he knew."
"You appear to be a little afraid of your son," said the countess.
"Yes, yes--he is strict, very strict and proud, but a good son."
The old man's eyes sparkled with love and pride.
"Where is he?" asked the countess eagerly.
"Oh, he never allows strangers to see him if he can avoid it."
"Does he act, too?"
"No; he arranges the tableaux, and it needs the ability of a field
marshal, for he is obliged to command two or three hundred people, and
he keeps them together and they obey him as though he was a general."
"He must be a very interesting person."
At that moment the prince's step was heard in the sitting-room.
"May I come in?"
"Yes, Prince."
He entered, dripping with rain.
"I found nothing except one little room for myself, in a hut even worse
than this. All the large houses are filled to overflowing. Satan
himself brought us among these confounded peasants!" he said angrily in
French.
"Don't speak so," replied the countess earnestly in the same language.
"They are saints." The little girl whispered to her mother.
"Please excuse me, Sir; but my child understands French and has just
told me that you could get no room for the lady," said Andreas'
daughter timidly. "I know where there is one in a very pretty house
near by. I will run over as quickly as I can and see if it is still
vacant. If you could secure it you would find it much better than
ours." She hurried towards the door.
"Stop, woman," called the prince, "you cannot possibly go out; the rain
is pouring in torrents, and another shower is rising."
"Yes, stay," cried the countess, "wait till the storm is over."
"Oh, no! lodgings are being taken every minute, we must not lose an
instant." The next moment she threw a shawl over her head and left the
house. She was just running past the low window--a vivid flash of
lightning illumined the room, making the little bent figure stand forth
like a silhouette. A peal of thunder quickly followed.
"The storm is just over us," said the prince with kindly anxiety. "We
ought not to have let her go."
"Oh, it is of no consequence," said the old man smiling, "she is glad
to do it."
"Tell me about these strange people," the prince began, but the
countess motioned to him that the child understood French. He looked at
her with a comical expression as if he wanted to say: "These are queer
'natives' who give their children so good an education."
The countess went to the window, gazing uneasily at the raging storm. A
feeling of self-reproach stole into her heart for having let the kind
creature go out amid this uproar of the elements. Especially when these
people would take no compensation and therefore lost a profit, if
another lodging was found.
It was her loss, and yet she showed this cheerful alacrity.
The little party had now entered the living room. The countess sat on
the window sill, while flash after flash of lightning blazed, and peal
after peal crashed from the sky. She no longer thought of herself, only
of the poor woman outside. The little girl wept softly over her poor
mother's exposure to the storm, and slipped to the door to wait for
her. The prince, shivering, sat on the bench by the stove. Gross,
noticing it, put on more fuel "that the gentleman might dry himself." A
bright fire was soon crackling in the huge green stove, the main
support of the sunken ceiling.
"Pray charge the fuel to me," said the prince, ashamed.
The old man smiled.
"How you gentle-folks want to pay for everything. We should have needed
a fire ourselves." With these words he left the room. The thin sister
now thought it desirable not to disturb the strangers and also went
out.
"Tell me, Countess," the prince began, leaning comfortably against the
warm stove, "may I perfume this, by no means agreeable, atmosphere with
a cigarette?"
"Certainly, I had forgotten that there were such things as cigarettes
in the world."
"So it seems to me," said the prince, coolly. "Tell me, _chere amie_,
now that you have duly enjoyed all the tremors of this romantic
situation, how should you like a cup of tea?"
"Tea?" said the countess, looking at him as if just roused from a
dream, "tea!"
"Yes, tea," persisted the prince. "My poor friend, you must have lived
an eternity in this one hour among these 'savages' to have already lost
the memory of one of the best products of civilization."
"Tea," repeated the countess, who now realized her exhaustion, "that
would be refreshing, but I don't know how to get it, I sent the maid
away."
"Yes, I met the dismissed couple in a state of utter despair. And I can
imagine that my worshipped Countess Madeleine--the most pampered and
spoiled of all the children of fortune and the fashionable world--does
not know how to help herself. I am by no means sorry, for I shall
profit by it. I can now pose as a kind Providence. What good luck for a
lover! is it not? So permit me to supply the maid's place--so far as
this is _practicable_. I have tea with me and my valet whom, thank
Heaven, I was not obliged to send away, is waiting your order to serve
it."
"How kind you are, Prince. But consider that kitchen filled with
flies."
"Oh, you need not feel uncomfortable on that score. You are evidently
unused to the mountains. I know these flies, they are different from
our city ones and possess a peculiar skill in keeping out of food. Try
it for once."
"Yes, but we must first ascertain whether I can get the other room,"
said the countess, again lapsing into despondency.
"My dearest Countess, does that prevent our taking any refreshment?
Don't be so spiritless," said the prince laughing.
"Oh, it's all very well to laugh. The situation is tragical enough, I
assure you."
"Tragical enough to pay for the trouble of developing a certain
grandeur of soul, but not, in true womanly fashion, to lose all
composure."
The prince shook the ashes from his cigarette and went to the door to
order the valet to serve the tea. When he returned, the countess
suddenly came to meet him, held out her hand, and said with a
bewitching smile:
"Prince, you are charming to-day, and I am unbearable. I thank you for
the patience you have shown."
"Madeleine," he replied, controlling his emotion, "if I did not know
your kind heart, I should believe you a Circe, who delighted in driving
men mad. Were it not for my cold, sober reason, which you always
emphasize, I should now mistake for love the feeling which makes you
meet me so graciously, and thus expose myself to disappointment. But
reason plainly shows that it is merely the gratitude of a kind heart
for a trivial service rendered in an unpleasant situation, and I am too
proud to do, in earnest, what I just said in jest--profit by the
opportunity."
The countess, chilled and ashamed, drew her hand back. There spoke the
dry, prosaic, commonplace man. Had he _now_ understood how to profit by
her mood when, in her helpless condition, he appeared as a deliverer in
the hour of need, who knows what might have happened! But this was
precisely what he disdained. The experienced man of the world knew
women well enough to be perfectly aware how easily one may be won in a
moment of nervous depression, desperate perplexity and helplessness,
yet though ever ready to enjoy every piquant situation, nevertheless or
perhaps for that very reason he was too proud to owe to an accident of
this kind the woman whom he had chosen for the companion of his life.
The countess felt this and was secretly glad that he had spared her and
himself a disappointment.
"That is the way with women," he said softly, gazing at her with an
almost compassionate expression. "For the mess of pottage of an
agreeable situation, they will sell the birthright of their most sacred
feelings."
"That is a solemn, bitter truth, such as I am not accustomed to hear
from your lips, Prince. But however deep may be the gulf of realism
whence you have drawn this experience, you shall not find it confirmed
in me."
"That is, you will punish me henceforth by your coldness, while you
know perfectly well that it was the sincerity of my regard for you
which prompted my act, Countess, that vengeance would be unworthy; a
woman like you ought not to sink to the petty sensitiveness of ordinary
feminine vanity."
"Oh, Prince, you are always right, and, believe me, if I carried my
heart in my _head_ instead of in my breast, that is, if we could love
with the _intellect_, I should have been yours long ago, but alas, my
friend, it is so _far_ from the head to the heart."
The Prince lighted another cigarette. No one could detect what was
passing in his mind. "So much the worse for me!" he said coldly,
shrugging his shoulders.
At that moment a sheet of flame filled the room, and the crashing
thunder which followed sounded as if the ceiling had fallen and buried
everything under it. The countess seemed bewildered.
"Mother, mother!" shrieked a voice outside. People gathered in the
street, voices were heard, shouts, hurrying footsteps and the weeping
of the little girl. The prince sprang out of the window, the countess
regained her consciousness--of what?
"Some one has been struck by lightning." She hastened out.
A senseless figure was brought in and laid on the bench in the entry.
It was the kind-hearted little creature whom her caprice had sent into
the storm--perhaps to her death. There she lay silent and pale, with
closed lids; her hands were cold her features sharp and rigid like
those of a corpse, but her heart still throbbed under her drenched
gown. The countess asked the prince to bring cologne and smelling salts
from her satchel and skillfully applied the remedies; the prince helped
her rub the arteries while she strove to restore consciousness with the
sharp essences. Meanwhile the other sister soothed the weeping child.
Andreas Gross poured a few drops of some liquid from a dusty flask into
the sufferer's mouth, saying quietly, "You must not be so much
frightened, I am something of a doctor; it is only a severe fainting
fit. The other is worse."
"Were two persons struck?" asked the countess in horror.
"Yes, one of the musicians, the first violin."
A sudden thought darted through the countess' brain, and a feeling of
dread stole over her as if there was in Ammergau a beloved life for
which she must tremble. Yet she knew no one.
"Please bring a shawl from my room," she said to the prince, and when
he had gone, she asked quickly: "Tell me, is the musician tall?"
"Oh, yes."
"Has he long black hair?"
"No, he is fair," replied the old man.
The countess, with a feeling of relief, remained silent, the prince
returned. The sick woman opened her eyes and a faint moan escaped her
lips.
"Here will be a fine scene," thought the prince. "Plenty of capital can
be made out of such a situation. My lovely friend will outweigh every
tear with a gold coin."
After a short time the woman regained sufficient consciousness to
realize her surroundings and tried to lift her feet from the bench.
"Oh, Countess, you will tax yourself too much. Please go in, there is a
strong draught here."
"Yes, but you must come with me," said the countess, "try whether you
can use your feet."
It was vain, she tried to take a step, but her feet refused to obey her
will.
"Alas!" cried the countess deeply moved. "She is paralyzed--and it is
my fault."
Anna gently took her hand and raised it to her lips. "Pray don't
distress yourself, Countess, it will pass away. I am only sorry that I
have caused you such a fright." She tried to smile, the ugly face
looked actually beautiful at that moment, and the tones of her voice,
whose tremor she strove to conceal, was so touching as she tried to
comfort and soothe the self-reproach of the woman who had caused the
misfortune that tears filled the countess' eyes.
"How wise she is," said the prince, marvelling at such delicacy and
feeling.
"Come," said the countess, "we must get her into the warm rooms."
Andreas Gross, and at a sign from the prince, the valet, carried the
sick woman in and laid her on the bench by the stove. The countess held
her icy hand, while tears streamed steadily down the sufferer's cheeks.
"Do you feel any pain?" asked the lady anxiously.
"No, oh no--but I can't help weeping because the Countess is so kind to
me--I am in no pain--no indeed!" She smiled again, the touching smile
which seeks to console others.
"Yes, yes," said the old man, "you need not be troubled, she will be
well to-morrow."
The child laid her head lovingly on her mother's breast, a singularly
peaceful atmosphere pervaded the room, a modest dignity marked the
bearing of the poor peasants. The prince and the countess also sat in
thoughtful silence. Suddenly the sick woman started up, "Oh dear, I
almost forget the main thing. The lady can have the lodgings. Two very
handsome rooms and excellent attendance, but the countess must go at
once as soon as the shower is over. They will be kept only an hour.
More people will arrive at ten."
"I thank you," said the countess with a strange expression.
"Oh, there is no need. I am only glad I secured the rooms, and that the
countess can have attendance," replied the sick woman joyously. "I
shall soon be better, then I'll show the way."
"I thank you," repeated the countess earnestly. "I do not want the
rooms, I shall _stay here_."
"What are you going to do?" asked the prince in amazement.
"Yes, I am ashamed that I was so foolish this evening. Will you keep
me, you kind people, after I have done you so much injustice, and
caused you such harm."
"Oh! you must consult your own pleasure. We shall be glad to have you
stay with us, but we shall take no offence, if it would be more
pleasant for you elsewhere," said the old man with unruffled kindness.
"Then I will stay."
"That is a good decision, Countess," said the prince. "You always do
what is right." He beckoned to Sephi, the thin sister, and whispered a
few words. She vanished in the countess' room, returning in a short
time with dry shoes and stockings, which she had found in one of the
travelling satchels. The prince went to the window and stood there with
his back turned to the room. "We must do the best that opportunity
permits," he said energetically. "I beg your highness to let this lady
change your shoes and stockings. I am answerable for your health, not
only to myself, but to society."
The countess submitted to the prince's arrangement, and the little
ice-cold feet slid comfortably into the dry coverings, which Sephi had
warmed at the stove. She now felt as if she was among human beings and
gradually became more at ease. After Sephi had left the room she walked
proudly up to the prince in her dry slippers, and said: "Come, Prince,
let us pace to and fro, that our chilled blood may circulate once
more."
The prince gracefully offered his arm and led her up and down the long
work-shop. Madeleine was bewitching at that moment, and the grateful
expression of her animated face suited her to a charm.
"I must go," he thought, "or I shall be led into committing some folly
which will spoil all my chances with her."
CHAPTER III.
YOUNG AMMERGAU.
The valet served the tea. The prince had provided for everything,
remembered everything. He had even brought English biscuits.
The little repast exerted a very cheering influence upon the depressed
spirits of the countess. But she took the first cup to the invalid who,
revived by the unaccustomed stimulant, rose at once, imagining that a
miracle had been wrought, for she could walk again. The Gross family
now left the room. The prince and the countess sipped their tea in
silence. What were they to say when the valet, who always accompanied
his master on his journeys, understood all the languages which the
countess spoke fluently?
The prince was grave and thoughtful. After they had drank the tea, he
kissed her hand. "Let me go now--we must both have rest, you for your
nerves and I for my feelings. I wish you a good night's sleep."
"Prince, I can say that you have been infinitely charming to-day, and
have risen much in my esteem."
"I am glad to hear it, Countess, though a trifle depressed by the
consciousness that I owe this favor to a cup of tea and a pair of dry
slippers," replied the prince with apparent composure. Then he took his
hat and left the room.
And this is love? thought the countess, shrugging her shoulders. What
was she to do? She did not feel at all inclined to sleep. People are
never more disposed to chat than after hardships successfully endured.
She had had her tea, had been warmed, served, and tended. For the first
time since her arrival she was comfortable, and now she must go to bed.
At ten o'clock in the evening, the hour when she usually drove from the
theatre to some evening entertainment.
The prince had gone and the Gross family came in to ask if she wanted
anything more.
"No, but you are ready to go to bed, and I ought to return to my room,
should I not?" replied the countess.
Just at that moment the door was flung open and a head like the bronze
cast of the bust of a Roman emperor appeared. A face which in truth
seemed as if carved from bronze, keen eagle eyes, a nose slightly
hooked, an imperious, delicately moulded brow, short hair combed
upward, and an expression of bitter, sad, but irresistible energy on
the compressed lips. As the quick eyes perceived the countess, the head
was drawn back with the speed of lightning. But old Gross, proud of his
son, called him back.
"Come in, come in and be presented to this lady, people don't run away
so."
The young man, somewhat annoyed, returned.
"My son, Ludwig, principal of the drawing school," said old Gross.
Ludwig's artist eyes glided over the countess; she felt the glance of
the connoisseur, knew, that he could appreciate her beauty. What a
delight to see herself, among these simple folk, suddenly reflected in
an artist's eyes and find that the picture came back beautiful. How
happened so exquisite a crystal, which can be polished only in the
workshops of the highest education and art, to be in such surroundings?
The countess noted with ever increasing amazement the striking face and
the proud poise of the head on the small, compact, yet classically
formed figure. She knew at the first moment that this was a man in the
true sense of the word, and she gave him her hand as though greeting an
old acquaintance from the kingdom of the ideal. It seemed as if she
must ask: "How do you come here?"
Ludwig Gross read the question on her lips. He possessed the vision
from which even the thoughts must be guarded, or he would guess them.
"I must ask your pardon for disturbing you. I have just come from the
meeting and only wanted to see my sister. I heard she was ill."
"Oh, I feel quite well again," the latter answered.
"Yes," said the countess in a somewhat embarrassed tone, "you will be
vexed with the intruder who has brought so much anxiety and alarm into
your house? I reproach myself for being so foolish as to have wanted
another lodging, but at first I thought that the ceiling would fall
upon me, and I was afraid."
"Oh, I understand that perfectly when persons are not accustomed to low
rooms. It was difficult for me to become used to them again when I
returned from Munich."
"You were at the Academy?"
"Yes, Countess."
"Will you not take off your wet coat and sit down?"
"I should not like to disturb you, Countess."
"But you won't disturb me at all; come, let us have a little chat."
Ludwig Gross laid his hat and overcoat aside, took a chair, and sat
down opposite to the lady. Just at that moment a carriage drove up. The
strangers who had engaged the rooms refused to the prince had arrived,
and the family hastened out to receive and help them. The countess and
Ludwig were left alone.
"What were you discussing at so late an hour?" asked the countess.
"Dore sent us this evening two engravings of his two Passion pictures;
he is interested in our play, so we were obliged to discuss the best
way of expressing our gratitude and to decide upon the place where they
shall be hung. There is no time for such consultations during the day."
"Are you familiar with all of Dore's pictures?"
"Certainly, Countess."
"And do you like him?"
"I admire him. I do not agree with him in every particular, but he is a
genius, and genius has a right to forgiveness for faults which
mediocrity should never venture to commit, and indeed never will."
"Very true," replied the lady.
"I think," Ludwig Gross continued, "that he resembles Hamerling. There
is kinship between the two men. Hamerling, too, repels us here and
there, but with him, as with Dore, every line and every stroke flashes
with that electric spark which belongs only to the genuine work of
art."
His companion gazed at him in amazement.
"You have read Hamerling?"
"Certainly. Who is not familiar with his 'Ahasuerus?'"[3]
"I, for instance," she replied with a faint blush.
"Oh, Countess, you must read it. There is a vigor, an acerbity, the
repressed anguish and wrath of a noble nature against the pitifulness
of mankind, which must impress every one upon whose soul the questions
of life have ever cast their shadows, though I know not whether this is
the case with you."
"More than is perhaps supposed," she answered, drawing a long breath.
"We are all pessimists, but Hamerling must be a stronger one than is
well for a poet."
"That is not quite correct," replied Ludwig. "He is a pessimist just so
far as accords with the poesy of our age. Did not Auerbach once say:
'Pessimism is the grief of the world, which has no more tears!' This
applies to Hamerling, also. His poetry has that bitter flavor, which is
required by a generation that has passed the stage when sweets please
the palate and tears relieve the heart."
"Your words are very true. But how do you explain--it would be
interesting to hear from you--how do you explain, in this mood of the
times, the attraction which draws such throngs to the Passion Play?"
Ludwig Gross leaned back in his chair, and his stern brow relaxed under
the bright influence of a beautiful thought.
"One extreme, as is well known, follows another. The human heart will
always long for tears, and the world's tearless anguish will therefore
yield to a gentler mood. I think that the rush to our simple play is a
symptom of this change. People come here to learn to weep once more."
The countess rested her clasped hands on the table and gazed long and
earnestly at Ludwig Gross. Her whole nature was kindled, her eyes
lingered admiringly upon the modest little man, who did not seem at all
conscious of his own superiority. "To learn to _weep_!" she repeated,
nodding gently. "Yes, we might all need that. But do you believe we
shall learn it here?"
Ludwig Gross gazed at her smiling. "You will not ask that question at
this hour on the evening of the day after tomorrow."
He seemed to her a physician who possessed a remedy which he knows
_cannot_ fail. And she began to trust him like a physician.
"May I be perfectly frank?" she asked in a winning tone.
"I beg that you will be so, Countess."
"I am surprised to find a man like you here. I had not supposed there
were such people in the village. But you were away a long time, you are
probably no longer a representative citizen of Ammergau?"
Ludwig Gross raised his head proudly. "Certainly I am, Countess. If
there was ever a true citizen of Ammergau, I am one. Learn to know us
better, and you will soon be convinced that we are all of one mind.
Though one has perhaps learned more than another, that is a mere
accident; the same purpose, the same idea, unites us all."
"But what binds men of such talent to this remote village? Are you
married?"
The bitter expression around the artist's mouth deepened as though cut
by some invisible instrument. "No, Countess, my circumstances do not
permit it; I have renounced this happiness."
The lady perceived that she had touched a sensitive spot, but she
desired to probe the wound to learn whether it might be healed. "Is
your salary so small that you could not support a family?"
"If I wish to aid my own family, and that is certainly my first duty, I
cannot found a home."
"How is that possible. Does so rich a community pay its teacher so
poorly?"
"It does as well as it can, Countess. It has fixed a salary of twelve
hundred marks for my position; that is all that can be expected."
"For this place, yes. But if you were in Munich, you would easily
obtain twice or three times as much."
"Even five times," answered Ludwig, smiling. "I had offers from two
art-industrial institutes, one of which promised a salary of four
thousand, the other of six thousand marks per annum. But that did not
matter when the most sacred duties to my home were concerned."
"But these are superhuman sacrifices. Who can expect you to banish
yourself here and resign everything which the world outside would
lavish upon you in the richest measure? Everyone must consider himself
first."
"Why, Countess, Ammergau would die out if everybody was of that
opinion."
"Oh! let those remain who are suited to the place, who have learned and
can do nothing more. But men of talent and education, like you, who can
claim something better, belong outside."
"On the contrary, Countess, they belong here," Ludwig eagerly answered.
"What would become of the Passion Play if all who have learned and can
do something should go away, and only the uneducated and the ignorant
remain? Do you suppose that there are not a number of people here, who,
according to your ideas, would have deserved 'a better fate?' We have
enough of them, but go among us and learn whether any one complains. If
he should, he would be unworthy the name of a son of Ammergau!" He
paused a moment, his bronzed face grew darker. "Do you imagine," he
added, "that we could perform such a work, perform it in a manner
which, in some degree, fulfills the aesthetic demand of modern taste,
without possessing, in our midst, men of intellect and culture? It is
bad enough that necessity compels many a talented native of Ammergau to
seek his fortune outside, but the man to whom his home still gives even
a bit of _bread_ must be content with it, and without thinking of what
he might have gained outside, devote his powers to the ideal interests
of his fellow citizens."
"That is a grand and noble thought, but I don't understand why you
speak as if the people of Ammergau were so poor. What becomes of the
vast sums gained by the Passion Play?"
Ludwig Gross smiled bitterly. "I expected that question, it comes from
all sides. The Passion Play does not enrich individuals, for the few
hundred marks, more or less, which each of the six hundred actors
receives, do not cover the deficit of all the work which the people
must neglect. The revenue is partly consumed by the expenses, partly
used for the common benefit, for schools and teachers. The principal
sums are swallowed by the Leine and the Ammer! The ravages of these
malicious mountain streams require means which our community could
never raise, save for the receipts of the Passion Play, and even these
are barely sufficient for the most needful outlay."
"Is it possible? Those little streams!" cried the countess.
"Would flood all Ammergau," Gross answered, "if we did not constantly
labor to prevent it. We should be a poor, stunted people, worn down by
fever, our whole mountain valley would be a desolate swamp. The Passion
Play alone saves us from destruction--the Christ who once ruled the
waves actually holds back from us the destroying element which would
gradually devour land and people. But, for that very reason, the
individual has learned here, as perhaps nowhere else in the world, to
live and sacrifice himself for the community! The community is
comprised to us in the idea of the Passion Play. We know that our
existence depends upon it, even our intellectual life, for it protects
us from the savagery into which a people continually struggling with
want and need so easily lapses. It raises us above the common herd,
gives even the poorest man an innate dignity and self-respect, which
never suffer him to sink to base excesses."
"I understand that," the countess answered.
"Then can you wonder that not one of us hesitates to devote property,
life, and every power of his soul to this work of saving our home, our
poor, oppressed home, ever forced to straggle for its very existence?"
"What a man!" the countess involuntarily exclaimed aloud. Ludwig Gross
had folded his arms across his breast, as if to restrain the pulsations
of his throbbing heart. His whole being thrilled with the deepest,
noblest emotions. He rose and took his hat, like a person whose
principle it is to shut every emotion within his own bosom, and when a
mighty one overpowers him, to hide himself that he may also hide the
feeling.
"No," cried the countess, "you must not leave me so, you rare,
noble-hearted man. You have just done me the greatest service which can
be rendered. You have made my heart leap with joy at the discovery of a
_genuine_ human being. Ah! it is a cordial in this world of
conventional masks! Give me your hand! I am beginning to understand why
Providence sent me here. That must indeed be a great cause which rears
such men and binds such powers in its service."
Ludwig Gross once more stood calm and quiet before her. "I thank you,
Countess, in the name of the cause for which I live and die."
"And, in the name of that cause, which I do not understand, yet dimly
apprehend, I beg you, let us be friends. Will you? Clasp hands upon
it."
A kindly expression flitted over the grave man's iron countenance, and
he warmly grasped the little hand.
"With all my heart, Countess."
She held the small, slender artist-hand in a close clasp, mournfully
reading in the calm features of the stern, noble face the story of
bitter suffering and sacrifice graven upon it.
CHAPTER IV.
EXPELLED FROM THE PLAY.
The storm had spent its fury, the winds sung themselves softly to
sleep, a friendly face looked down between the dispersing clouds and
cast its mild light upon the water, now gradually flowing away. The
swollen brooks rolled like molten silver--cold, glittering veins of the
giant mountain body, whose crown of snow bestowed by the tempest
glimmered with argent lustre in the pallid moonbeams. A breeze, chill
and strengthening as the icy breath of eternity, sweeping from the
white glaciers, entered the little window against which the countess
was dreamily leaning.
Higher and higher rose the moon, more and more transfigured and
transparent became the mountains, as if they were no longer compact
masses, only the spiritual image of themselves as it may have hovered
before the divine creative mind, ere He gave them material form.
The village lay silent before her, and silence pervaded all nature. Yet
to the countess it seemed as if it were the stillness which precedes a
great, decisive word.
"What hast Thou to say to me, Viewless One? Sacred stillness, what dost
thou promise? Will the moment come when I shall understand Thy
language, infinite Spirit? Or wilt Thou only half do Thy work in
me--only awake the feeling that Thou art near me, speaking to me,
merely to let me die of longing for the word I have failed to
comprehend.
"Woe betide me, if it is so! And yet--wherefore hast Thou implanted in
my heart this longing, this inexplicable yearning, which _nothing_
stills, no earthly advantage, neither the splendor and grandeur Thou
hast given me, nor the art and science which Thou didst endow me with
capacity to appreciate. On, on, strives my thirsting soul toward the
germ of all existence, toward _Thee_. Fain would I behold Thy face,
though the fiery vision should consume me!
"Source of wisdom, no knowledge gives Thee to me; source of love, no
love can supply Thy place. I have sought Thee in the temples of beauty,
but found Thee not; in the shining spheres of thought, but in vain; in
the love of human beings, but no matter how many hearts opened to me, I
flung them aside as worthless rubbish, for Thou wert not in them! When
will the moment come that Thou wilt appear before me in some noble form
suited to Thy Majesty, and tell the sinner that her dim longing, into
whatever errors it may have led her, yet obtained for her the boon of
beholding Thy face?"
Burning tears glittered in the moonlight in the countess' large,
beseeching eyes and, mastered by an inexplicable feeling, she sank on
her knees at the little window, stretching her clasped hands fervently
towards the shining orb, floating in her mild beauty and effulgence
above the conquered, flying clouds. The mountain opposite towered like
a spectral form in the moonlit atmosphere, the peak over which she had
driven that day, where she had seen that wondrous apparition, that man
with the grief of the universe in his gaze! What manner of man must he
have been whose glance, in a single moment, awed the person upon whom
it fell as if some higher power had given a look of admiration? Why had
it rested upon her with such strange reproach, as if saying: "You, too,
are a child of the world, like many who come here, unworthy of
salvation." Or was he angry with her because she had disturbed him in
his reveries? Yet why did he fix his eyes so intently upon hers, that
neither could avert them from the other? And all this happened in a
single moment--but a moment worthy of being held in remembrance
throughout an eternity. Who could he be? Would she see him again? Yes,
for in that meeting there was something far beyond mere accident.
An incomprehensible restlessness seized upon her, a longing to solve
the enigma, once more behold that face, that wonderful face whose like
she had never seen before!
The horse was stamping in its stall, but she did not heed it, the thin
candles had burned down and gone out long ago, the worm was gnawing the
ancient wainscoting, the clock in the church-steeple struck twelve. A
dog howled in the distance, one of the children in the workshop was
disturbed by the nightmare, it cried out in its sleep. Usually such
nocturnal sounds would have greatly irritated the countess' nerves. Now
she had no ears for them, before her lay the whole grand expanse of
mountain scenery, bathed in the moonlight, naked as a beautiful body
just risen from a glittering flood! And she was seized with an eager
longing to throw herself upon the bosom of this noble body, that she,
too, might be irradiated with light, steeped in its moist glow and cool
in the pure, icy atmosphere emanating from it, her fevered blood, the
vague yearning which thrilled her pulses. She hurriedly seized her hat
and cloak and stepped noiselessly into the workshop. What a picture of
poverty! The sisters and the little girl were lying on the floor upon
sacks of straw, the boy was asleep on the "couch," and the old man
dozed sitting erect in an antique arm-chair, with his feet on a stool.
"How relative everything is," thought the countess. "To these people
even so poor a bed as mine in yonder room is a forbidden luxury, which
it would be sinful extravagance to desire. And we, amid our rustling
curtains, on our silken cushions, resting on soft down, in rooms
illuminated with the magical glow of lamps which pour a flood of
roseate light on limbs stretched in comfortable repose, while the
bronze angels which support the mirror seem to laugh gaily at each
other, and from the toilet table intoxicating perfumes send forth their
sweet poison, to conjure up a tropical world of blossom before the
drowsy senses! While these sleeping-places here! On the bare floor and
straw, lighted by the cold glimmer of the moon, shining through
uncurtained windows and making the slumberers' lids quiver restlessly.
Not even undressed, cramped by their coarse, tight garments, their
weary limbs move uneasily on the hard beds! And this atmosphere! Five
human beings in the low room and the soot from the lamp which has been
smoking all the evening still filling the air. What lives! What
contrasts! Yet these people are content and do not complain of their
hard fate! Nay, they even disdain a favorable opportunity of improving
it by legitimate gains. Not one desires more than is customary and
usual. What pride, what grandeur of self-sacrifice this requires! _What
gives them this power?_"
Old Andreas woke and gazed with an almost terrified expression at the
beautiful figure of the countess, standing thoughtfully among the
sleepers. Starting up, he asked what she desired.
"Will you go to walk with me, Herr Gross?"
The old man rubbed his eyes to convince himself that he had slept so
long that the sun was shining into his room. But no. "It is the moon
which is so bright," he said to the countess.
"Why, of course, that is why I want to go out!" she repeated. The old
man quickly seized his hat from the chamois horn and stood ready to
attend her. "Are you not tired?" she said hesitatingly. "You have not
been in bed."
"Oh, that is of no consequence!" was his ready answer. "During the
Passion it is always so."
The countess shook her head; she knew that the people here said simply
"the Passion," but she could not understand why, during "the Passion,"
they should neither expect a bed nor the most trivial comfort or why,
for the sake of "the Passion," they should endure without a murmur, and
without succumbing, every exertion and deprivation. She saw in the
broad light which filled the room the old man's bright, keen eyes. "No,
these Ammergau people know no fatigue, their task supports them!"
The countess left the room with him. "Ah!" an involuntary exclamation
of delight escaped her lips as she emerged into the splendor of the
brilliant moonlight, and eagerly inhaled the air which blew cold and
strong, yet closed softly around her, strengthening and supporting her
like the waves of the sea. And, amid these shimmering, floating mists,
this "phosphorescence" of the earth, these waves of melting outlines,
softly dissolving shapes--the Kofel towered solitary in sharp relief,
like a vast reef of rocks, and on its summit glittered the metal-bound
cross, the symbol of Ammergau, sending its beams far and wide in the
light of the full moon like the lantern of a lighthouse.
Madeleine von Wildenau stretched out her arms, throwing back her cloak,
that her whole form might bathe in the pure element.
"Oh, wash away all earthly dust and earthly ballast, ye surging
billows: steal, purify me in thy chaste majesty, queen of the world,
heaven-born air of the heights!" Was it possible that hitherto she had
been able to live without this bliss, _had_ she lived? No, no, she had
not! "Ammergau, thou art the soil I have sought! Thy miracles are
beginning!" cried an exultant voice in the soul of the woman so
suddenly released from the toils of weary desolation.
Without exchanging many words--for the old man was full of delicacy,
and perceived what was passing in the countess' soul--they
involuntarily walked in the direction of the Kofel; only when they were
passing the house of a prominent actor in the Passion Play, he often
thought it his duty to call his companion's attention to it.
Their way now lead them past a small dilapidated tavern which had but
two windows in the front. Here the Roman Procurator lay on his bed of
straw, enjoying his well-earned night's rest. It was the house of
Pilate! Nowhere was any window closed with shutters--there were no
thieves in Ammergau! The moon was reflected from every window-pane.
They turned into the main street of the village, where the Ammer flowed
in its broad, deep channel like a Venetian lagoon. The stately,
picturesquely situated houses threw sharp shadows on the water. Here
the ancient, venerable "star," whose landlord was one of the musicians,
thrust its capacious bow-window into the street; yonder a foot-bridge
led to the house of Caiaphas, a handsome building, richly adorned with
frescoes representing scenes from ancient history; farther on Judas was
sleeping the sleep of the just, rejoicing in the consciousness of
having betrayed his master so often! On the other side Mary rested
under the richly carved gable with the ancient design of the clover
leaf, the symbol of the Trinity, and directly opposite, the milk-wart
nodded and swayed on the wall of the churchyard!
A strange feeling stole over the countess as she stood among these
consecrated sleepers. As the fragrance of the sleeping flowers floats
over a garden at night, the sorrowful spirit of the story of the
Passion seemed to rise from these humble resting places, and the
pilgrim through the silent village was stirred as though she was
walking through the streets of Jerusalem. A street turned to the left
between gardens surrounded by fences and shaded by tall, ancient trees.
The shadows of the branches, tossed by the wind, flickered and danced
with magical grace. "That is the way to the dwelling of the Christ,"
said old Gross, in a subdued, reverential tone.
The countess involuntarily started. "The Christ," she repeated
thoughtfully, pausing. "Can the house be seen?"
"No, not from here. The house is like himself, not very easy to find."
"Is he so inaccessible?" asked the countess, glancing down the
mysterious street again as they passed.
"Oh yes," replied Andreas. "He is a peculiar man. It is difficult to
approach him. He is a friend of my son, but has little to do with the
rest of us."
"But you associate with him?"
"Very little in daily life; he goes nowhere, not even to the ale-house.
But in the Passion I am associated with him. I always nail him to the
cross," added the old man proudly. "No one is permitted to do that
except myself."
The countess listened with eager interest. The brief description had
roused her curiosity to the utmost. "How do you do it?" she asked, to
keep him to the same subject.
"I cannot explain that to you, but a great deal depends upon having
everything exactly right, for, you know, the least mistake might cost
him his life."
"How?"
"Why, surely you can understand. Just think, the man is obliged to hang
on the cross for twenty minutes. During this time the blood cannot
circulate, and he always risks an attack of palpitation of the heart.
One incautious movement in the descent from the cross, which should
cause the blood to flow back too quickly to the heart, might cause his
death."
"That is terrible!" cried the countess in horror. "And does he know
it?"
"Why, certainly."
"And _still_ does it!"
Here Andreas gazed at the great lady with a compassionate smile, as if
he wanted to say: "How little you understand, that you can ask such a
question!"
They walked on silently. The countess was thinking: "What kind of man
must this Christ be?" and while thus pondering and striving to form
some idea of him, it suddenly flashed upon her that there was but _one_
face which could belong to this man, the face she had seen gazing down
upon her from the mountain, as if from some other world. Like a blaze
of lightning the thought flamed through her soul. "_That_ must have
been he!"
At that moment Gross made a circuit around a gloomy house that had a
neglected, tangled garden.
"Who lives there?" asked the countess in surprise, following the old
man, who was now walking much faster.
"Oh," he answered sorrowfully, "that is a sad place! There is an
unhappy girl there, who sobs and moans all night long so that people
hear her outside. I wanted to spare you, Countess."
They had now reached the end of the village and were walking, still
along the bank of the Ammer, toward a large dam over which the mountain
stream, swollen by the rain, plunged in mad, foaming waves. The spray
gleamed dazzlingly white in the moon-rays, the massive beams trembled
under the pressure of the unchained volume of water, groaning and
creaking with a sinister noise amid the thundering roar until it
sounded like the wails of the dying amid the din of battle. The
countess shuddered at the demoniac power of this spectacle. High above
the steep fall a narrow plank led from one bank of the stream to the
other, vibrating constantly with the shock of the falling water.
Madeleine's brain whirled at the thought of being compelled to cross
it. "The timbers are groaning," she said, pausing. "Does not it sound
like a human voice?"
The old man listened. "By heaven! one would suppose so."
"It _is_ a human voice--there--hark--some one is weeping--moaning."
The dam was in the full radiance of the moonlight, the countess and her
companion stood concealed by a dense clump of willows, so that they
could see without being seen.
Suddenly--what was that? The old man made the sign of the cross.
"Heavenly Father, it is she!"
A female figure was gliding across the plank. Like the ruddy glow of
flame, mingled with the bluish hue of the moonlight, a mass of red-gold
hair gleamed around her head and fluttered in the wind. The beautiful
face was ghost-like in its pallor, the eyes were fixed, the very
embodiment of despair. Her upper garment hung in tatters about her
softly-moulded shoulders, and she held her clasped hands uplifted, not
like one who prays, but one who fain would pray, yet cannot. Then with
the firm poise of a person seeking death, she walked to the middle of
the swaying plank, where the water was deepest, the fall most steep.
There she prepared to take the fatal plunge. The countess shrieked
aloud and Gross shouted:
"Josepha! Josepha! May God forgive you. Remember your old mother!"
The girl uttered a piercing cry, covered her face with both hands, and
flung herself prone on the narrow plank.
But, with the speed of a youth, the old man was already on the bridge,
raising the girl. "Shame on you to wish to do such a thing! We must
submit to our fate! Now take care that you don't make a mis-step or I,
an old man, must leap into the cold water to drag you out again, and
you know how much I suffer from the rheumatism." He spoke in low,
kindly tones, and the countess secretly admired his shrewdness and
tenderness. She watched them breathlessly as the girl, at these words,
tried not to slip in order to spare him. But now, as she did not _wish_
to fall, she moved with uncertain, stumbling feet, where she had just
seemed to fly. But Andreas Gross led her firmly and kindly. The
countess' heart throbbed heavily till they reached the end and, in the
utmost anxiety she stretched out her arms to them from the distance.
Thank Heaven, there they are! The lady caught the girl by the hand and
dragged her on the shore, where she sank silently, like a stricken
animal, at her feet. The countess covered the trembling form with her
cloak and said a few comforting words.
"Do you know her?" she asked the old man.
"Of course, it is Josepha Freyer, from the gloomy house yonder."
"Freyer? A relative of the Freyer who played the Christ."
"A cousin; yes."
The old man was about to go to the girl's house to bring her mother.
"No, no," said the countess. "I will care for her. What induced the
unfortunate girl to take such a step?"
"She was the Mary Magdalene in the last Passion!" whispered the old
man. At the words the girl raised her head and burst into violent sobs.
"My child, what has happened!" asked the countess, gazing admiringly at
the charming creature, who was as perfect a picture of the penitent
Magdalene as any artist could create.
"Why don't you play the Magdalene _this time_?"
"Don't you know?" asked the girl, amazed that there was any human being
still ignorant of her disgrace. "I am not _permitted_ to play now--I
am--I have"--she again burst with convulsive sobs and, clasping the
countess' knees, cried: "Oh, let me die, I cannot bear it."
"She fell into error," said Gross, in reply to the lady's questioning
glance. "A little boy was born last winter. Now she can no longer act,
for only those who are pure and without reproach are permitted to take
part in the Passion."
"Oh, how harsh!" cried the countess; "And in a land where human beings
are so near to nature, and in circumstances where the poor girls are so
little guarded."
"Yes, we are aware of that--and Josepha is a heavy loss to us in the
play--but these rules have come down to us from our ancestors and must
be rigidly maintained. Yet the girl takes it too much to heart, she
weeps day and night, so that people never pass the house to avoid
hearing her lamentations, and now she wants to kill herself, the
foolish lass."
"Oh, it's very well for you to talk, it's very well for you to talk,"
now burst from the girls lips in accents tremulous with passion.
"First, try once what it is to have the whole world point at you. When
the Englishmen, and the strangers from all the foreign countries in the
world, come and want to see the famous Josepha Freyer, who played in
the last Passion, and fairly drag the soul out of your body with their
questions about the reason that you no longer act in it. Wait till you
have to tell each person the story of your own disgrace, that it may be
carried through the whole earth and know that your name is branded
wherever men speak of the Passion Play. First try what it is to hide in
a corner like a criminal, while they are acting in the Passion, and
bragging and giving themselves airs as if they were saints, while
thousands upon thousands listen devoutly. Ah, I alone am shut out, and
yet I know that _no one_ can act as I do." She drew herself up proudly,
and flung the magnificent traditional locks of the Magdalene back on
her shoulders. "Just seek such a Magdalene as I was--you will find
none. And then to be forced to hear people who are passing ask: 'Why
doesn't Josepha Freyer play the Magdalene this year?' And then there
are whispers, shrugs, and laughter, some one says, 'then she would suit
the character exactly.' And when people pass the house they point at
it--it seems as if I could feel it through the walls--and mutter:
'That's where the Penitent lives!' No, I won't bear it. I only waited
till there was a heavy storm to make the water deep enough for me to
drown myself. And I've been prevented even in this."
"Josepha!" said the countess, deeply moved, "will you go with me--away
from Ammergau, to another, a very different world, where you and your
disgrace are unknown?"
Josepha gazed at the stranger as if in a dream.
"I believe," the lady added, "that my losing my maid to-day was an act
of Providence in your behalf. Will you take her place?"
"Thank heaven!" said old Gross. "Brighter days will dawn for you,
Josepha!"
Josepha stood still with her hands clasped, tears were streaming down
her cheeks.
"Why, do you hesitate to accept my offer?" asked the countess, greatly
perplexed.
"Oh, don't be angry with me--I am sincerely grateful; but what do I
care for all these things, if I am no longer permitted to act the
Magdalene?" burst in unutterable anguish from the very depths of the
girl's soul.
"What an ambition!" said the countess to Andreas in astonishment.
"Yes, that is the way with them all here--they would rather lose their
lives than a part in the Passion!" he answered in a low tone. "But,
child, you could not always play the Magdalene--in ten years you would
be too old for it," he said soothingly to the despairing Josepha.
"Oh that's a very different thing--when we have grown grey with honors,
we know that we must give it up--but so--" and again she gazed
longingly at the beautiful, deep, rushing water, where it would be so
cool, so pleasant to rest--which she had vowed to seek, and now could
not keep her word.
"Do you love your child, Josepha?" asked Countess Wildenau.
"It died directly after it was born."
"Do you love your mother?"
"No, she was always unkind and harsh to me, and now she has lost her
mind."
"Do you love your lover?" the lady persisted.
"Yes--but he is dead! A poacher shot him--he was a forester."
"Then you have no one for whom you care to live?"
"No one!"
"Then come with me and try whether you cannot love me well enough to
make it worth while to live for me! Will you?"
"Yes, your Highness, I will try!" replied the girl, fixing her large
eyes with an expression of mingled inquiry and admiration upon the
countess. A beautiful glow of gratitude and confidence gradually
transfigured the grief-worn face: "I think I could do anything for
you."
"Come with me then--at once, poor child--I will save you! Your
relatives will not object."
"Oh, no! They will be glad to have me go away."
"And your cousin, the--the--" she does not know herself why she
hesitates to pronounce the name.
"The Christ-Freyer?" said Josepha finishing the sentence. "Oh! he has
not spoken to me for a year, except to say what was absolutely
necessary, he cannot get over my having brought disgrace upon his
unsullied name. It has made him disgusted with life here and, if it
were not for the Christ, he would not stay in Ammergau. He is so severe
in such things."
"So _severe!_" the countess repeated, thoughtfully.
The clock in the steeple of the Ammergau church struck two.
"It is late," said the countess, "the poor thing needs rest." She
wrapped her own cloak around the girl.
"Come, lonely heart, I will warm you."
She turned once more to drink in the loveliness of the exquisite scene.
"Night of miracle, I thank thee."
CHAPTER V.
MODERN PILGRIMS.
"What do you think. The Countess von Wildenau is founding an Orphan's
Home!" said the prince, as, leaving the Gross house, he joined a group
of gentlemen who were waiting just outside the door in the little
garden.
The news created a sensation; the gentlemen, laughing and jesting,
plied him with questions.
"Oh, _Mon Dieu_, who can understand a woman? Our goddess is sitting in
the peasants' living room, with the elderly daughters of the house,
indescribable creatures, occupying herself with feminine work."
"Her Highness! Countess Wildenau! Oh, that's a bad joke."
"No, upon my honor! If she had not hung a veil over the window, we
could see her sitting there. She has borrowed a calico apron from one
of the 'ladies of the house,' and as, for want of a maid, she was
obliged to arrange her hair herself, she wears it to-day in a
remarkably simple style and looks,"--he kissed his hand to the empty
air--"more bewitching than ever, like a girl of sixteen, a regular
Gretchen! Whoever has not gone crazy over her when she has been in full
dress, will surely do so if he sees her _thus_."
"Aha! We must see her, too; we'll assail the window!" cried his
companions enthusiastically.
"No, no! For Heaven's sake don't do that, on pain of her anger! Prince
Hohenheim, I beg you! Count Cossigny, don't knock! St. Genois, _au nom
de Dieu_, she will never forgive you."
"Why not--friends so intimate as we are?"
"I have already said, who can depend upon a woman's whims? Let me
explain. I entered, rejoicing in the thought of bringing her such
pleasant news. I said: 'Guess whom I met just now at the ticket office,
Countess?' The goddess sat sewing."
There was a general cry of astonishment. "Sewing!" the prince went on,
"of course, without a thimble, for those in the house did not fit, and
there was none among Her Highness' trinkets. So I repeated my question.
An icy 'How can I tell?' was the depressing answer, as if at that
moment nothing in the world could possibly interest her more than her
work! So, unasked and with no display of attention, I was forced to go
on with my news. 'Just think, Countess, Prince Hohenheim, the Counts
Cossigny, Wengenrode, St. Genois, all Austria, France, and Bavaria have
arrived!' I joyously exclaimed. I expected that she would utter a sigh
of relief at the thought of meeting men of her world again, but no--she
greeted my tidings with a frown."
"Hear, hear!" cried the group.
"A frown! I was forced to persist. 'They are outside, waiting to throw
themselves at your feet,' I added. A still darker frown. 'Please keep
the gentlemen away, I can see no one, I will see no one.' So she
positively announced. I timidly ventured to ask why. She was tired, she
could receive no one, she had no time. At last it came out. What do you
suppose the countess did yesterday?"
"I dare not guess," replied St. Genois with a malicious glance at the
prince, which the latter loftily ignored.
"She sent me away at eleven o'clock and then went wandering about,
rhapsodizing over the moonlight with her host, old Gross."
A universal peal of laughter greeted these words. "Countess Wildenau,
for lack of an escort, obliged to wander about with an old
stone-cutter!"
"Yes, and she availed herself of this virtuous ramble to save the life
of a despairing girl, who very opportunely attempted to commit suicide,
just at the time the countess was passing to rescue this precious
prize. Now she is sitting yonder remodeling one of her charming tailor
costumes for this last toy of her caprice. She declares that she loves
the wench most tenderly, will never be separated from her; in short,
she is playing the novel character of Lady Bountiful, and does not want
to be disturbed."
"Did you see the fair orphan?"
"No; she protested that it would be unpleasant for the girl to expose
herself to curious glances, so she conceals this very sensitive young
lady from profane eyes in her sleeping room. What do you say to all
this, Prince?"
"I say," replied Prince Hohenheim, an elderly gentleman with a clearly
cut, sarcastic face, a bald forehead, and a low, but distinct
enunciation, "that a vivacious, imaginative woman is always influenced
by the environment in which she happens to find herself. When the
countess is in the society of scholarly people, she becomes extremely
learned, if she is in a somewhat frivolous circle, like ours, she
grows--not exactly frivolous, but full of sparkling wit, and here,
among these devout enthusiasts, Her Highness wishes to play the part of
a Stylite. Let us indulge her, it won't last long, a lady's whim must
never be thwarted. _Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut!_"
"Has the countess also made a vow to fast?" asked Count Cossigny of the
Austrian Embassy, and therefore briefly called 'Austria,' "could we not
dine together?"
"No, she told me that she would not leave the beloved suicide alone a
moment at present, and therefore she intended to dine at home.
Yesterday she shuddered at the bare thought of drinking a cup of tea
made in that witch's kitchen, and only the fact that my valet prepared
it and I drank it first in her presence finally induced her, at ten
o'clock last evening, to accept the refreshment. And to-day she will
eat a dinner prepared by the ladies of the house. There must really be
something dangerous in the air of Ammergau!"
"To persons of the countess' temperament, yes!" replied Prince
Hohenheim in his calm manner, then slipping his arm through the
prince's a moment, whispered confidentially, as they walked on: "I
advise you, Prince Emil, to get her away as soon as possible."
"Certainly, all the arrangements are made. We shall start directly
after the performance."
"That is fortunate. To-morrow, then! You have tickets?"
"Oh yes, and what is still better, whole bones."
"That's true," cried Austria, "what a crowd! One might think Sarah
Bernhardt was going to play the Virgin Mary."
"It's ridiculous! I haven't seen such a spectacle since the Paris
Exposition!" remarked St. Genois.
"It's worse than Baden-Baden at the time of the races," muttered
Wengenrode, angrily. "Absurd, what brings the people here?"
"Why, _we_ are here, too," said Hohenheim, smiling.
"_Mon Dieu_, it must be seen once, if people are in the neighborhood,"
observed Cossigny.
"Are you going directly after the performance, too?" asked Prince Emil.
"Of course, what is there to do here? No gaming--no ladies' society,
and just think, the burgomaster of Ammergau will allow neither a circus
nor any other ordinary performance. He was offered _forty thousand
marks_ by the proprietor of the Circus Rouannet, if he would permit him
to give performances during the Passion Play! Mademoiselle Rouannet
told me so herself. Do you suppose that obstinate, stiff-necked
Philistine could be persuaded? No, it was not in harmony with the
dignity of the Passion Play. He preferred to refuse the 40,000 marks.
The Salon Klueber wanted to put up an elegant merry-go-round and offered
12,000 marks for the privilege. Heaven forbid!"
"I believe these people have the mania of ambition," said Wengenrode.
"Say rather of _saintship_,' corrected Prince Hohenheim.
"Aye, they all consider themselves the holy personages whom they
represent. We need only look at this arrogant burgomaster, and the
gentleman who personates Christ, to understand what these people
imagine themselves."
All joined in the laugh which followed.
"Yes," said Wengenrode, "and the Roman procurator, Pilate, who is a
porter or a messenger and so drags various loads about, carried up my
luggage to-day and dropped my dressing case containing a number of
breakable jars and boxes. 'Stupid blockhead!' I exclaimed, angrily. He
straightened himself and looked at me with an expression which actually
embarrassed me. 'My name is _Thomas Rendner_, sir! I beg your pardon
for my awkwardness, and am ready to make your loss good, so far as my
means shall allow.'"
"Now tell me, isn't that sheer hallucination of grandeur?"
Some of the gentlemen laughed, but Prince Emil and Hohenheim were
silent.
"Where shall we go to-morrow evening in Munich to recompense ourselves
for this boredom?" asked Cossigny.
"To the Casino, I think!" said the prince.
"Well, then we'll all meet there, shall we?"
The party assented.
"Provided that the countess has no commands for us," observed St.
Genois.
"She will not have any," said the prince, "for either the Play will
produce an absurd impression which is not to be expected, and then she
will feel ashamed and unwilling to grant us our triumph because we
predicted it, or her sentimental mood will draw from this farce a sweet
poison of emotion, and in that case we shall be too frivolous for her!
This must first be allowed to exhale."
"Very true," Hohenheim assented. "You are just the man to cope with
this capricious beauty, Prince Emil. Adieu! May you prosper!"
The gentlemen raised their hats.
"Farewell!" said Cossigny, "by the way, I'll make a suggestion. We
shall best impress the countess while in this mood, by our generosity;
let us heap coals of fire on her head by sending a telegram to the
court-gardener to convert the whole palace into a floral temple to
welcome her return. It will touch a mysterious chord of sympathy if she
meets only these mute messengers of our adoration. When on entering she
finds this surprise and remembers how basely she treated us this
morning, her heart will be touched and she will invite us to dine the
day after to-morrow."
"A capital plan," cried Wengenrode and St. Genois, gaily. "Do your
Highnesses agree?"
"Certainly," replied Hohenheim, with formal courtesy, "when the point
in question is a matter of gallantry, a Hohenheim is never backward."
"I beg to be allowed to contribute also, but _incognito_. She would
regard such an attention from me as a piece of sentimentality, and it
would produce just the contrary effect," Prince Emil answered.
"As you please."
"Let us go to the telegraph office!" cried Wengenrode, eagerly.
"Farewell, gentlemen."
"_Au revoir_, Prince Emil! Are you going to return to the lionesses'
den?"
"Can you ask?" questioned Hohenheim with a significant smile.
"Then early to-morrow morning at the Play, and at night the Casino,
don't forget!" Cossigny called back.
The gentlemen, laughing and chatting, strolled down the street to their
lodgings. The prince watched them a moment, turned, and went back to
the countess.
"I cannot really be vexed with her, if these associates do not satisfy
her," he thought.
"Should I desire her to become my wife, if they did? Certainly not. Yet
if women only would not rush from one extreme to another? Hohenheim is
perfectly right, she ought not to stay here too long, she must go
to-morrow."
He had reached the house and entered the neglected old garden where
huge gnarled fruit trees, bearing small, stunted fruit, interlaced
their branches above a crooked bench. There, in the midst of the rank
grass and weeds, sat the countess, her beautiful head resting against
the mouldy bark of the old trunk, gazing thoughtfully at the luminous
mountains gleaming in the distance through the tangled boughs and
shrubbery.
From the adjoining garden of the sculptor Zwink, whose site was
somewhat higher, a Diana carved in white stone gazed curiously across,
seeming as if she wished to say to the pensive lady who at that moment
herself resembled a statue: "Art will create gods for you
_everywhere_!" But the temptation had no effect, the countess seemed to
have had no luck with these gods, she no longer believed in them!
"Well, Countess Madeleine, did the light and air lure you out of
doors?" asked the prince, joyfully approaching her.
"Oh, I could not bear to stay there any longer. Herr Gross' daughters
are finishing the dress. We will dine here, Prince; the meal can be
served on a table near the house, under a wild-grape vine arbor. We can
wait on ourselves for one day."
"For _one_ day!" repeated the prince with great relief; "oh yes, it can
be managed for one day." Thank Heaven, she had no intention of staying
here.
"Oh, Prince, see how beautiful, how glorious it is!"
"Beautiful, glorious? Pardon me, but I see nothing to call forth words
you so rarely use! You must have narrowed your demands if, after the
view of the wondrous garden of the Isola Bella and all the Italian
villas, you suddenly take delight in cabbage-stalks, wild-pears, broom,
and colt's foot."
"Now see how you talk again!" replied the countess, unpleasantly
affected by his words. "Does not Spinoza say: 'Everything is beautiful,
and as I lose myself in the observation of its beauty, my pleasure in
life is increased.'"
"That has not been your motto hitherto. You have usually found
something to criticise in every object. It seems to me that you have
wearied of the beautiful and now, by way of a change, find even
_ugliness_ fair."
"Very true, my friend. I am satisfied, nothing charms me, nothing
satisfies me, not even the loveliest scene, because I always apply to
everything the standard of perfection, and nothing attains it." She
shook herself suddenly as if throwing off a burden. "This must not
continue, the aesthetic intolerance which poisoned every pleasure must
end, I will cast aside the whole load of critical analysis and academic
ideas of beauty, and snap my fingers at the ghosts of Winckelmann and
Lessing. Here in the kitchen-garden, among cabbage-stalks and colt's
foot, wild-pear and plum-trees, fanned by the fresh, crystal-clear air
of the lofty mountains, whose glaciers shimmer with a bluish light
through the branches, in the silence and solitude, I suddenly find it
beautiful; beautiful because I am happy, because I am only a human
being, free from every restraint, thinking nothing, feeling nothing
save the peace of nature, the delight of this repose."
She rested her feet comfortably on the bench and, with her head thrown
back, gazed with a joyous expression into the blue air which, after the
rain, arched above the earth like a crystal bell.
This mood did not quite please the prince. He was exclusively a man of
the world. His thoughts were ruled by the laws of the most rigid logic,
whatever was not logically attainable had no existence for him; his
enthusiasm reached the highest pitch only in the enjoyment of the
noblest products of art and science. He did not comprehend how any one
could weary of them, even for a moment, on the one side because his
calm temperament did not, like the countess' passionate one, exhaust
everything by following it to its inmost core, and he was thus guarded
from satiety; on the other because he wholly lacked appreciation of
nature and her unconscious grandeur. He was the trained vassal of
custom in the conventional, as well as in every other province. The
countess, however, possessed some touch of that doctrine of divine
right which is ready, at any moment, to cast off the bonds of tradition
and artificial models and obey the impulse of kinship with sovereign
nature. This was the boundary across which he could not follow her, and
he was perfectly aware of it, for he had one of those proud characters
which disdain to deceive themselves concerning their own powers. Yet it
filled him with grave anxiety.
"What are you thinking of now, Prince?" asked his companion, noticing
his gloomy mood.
"That I have not seen you so contented for months, and yet I am unable
to understand the cause of this satisfaction. Especially when I
remember what it usually requires to bring a smile of pleasure to your
lips."
"Dear me, must everything be understood?" cried the beautiful woman,
laughing; "there is the pedant again! Must we be perpetually under
the curb of self-control and give ourselves an account whether
what we feel in a moment of happiness is sensible and authorized?
Must we continually see ourselves reflected in the mirror of our
self-consciousness, and never draw a veil over our souls and permit God
to have one undiscovered secret in them?"
The prince silently kissed her hand. His eyes now expressed deep,
earnest feeling, and stirred by emotion, she laid her other hand upon
his head:
"You are a noble-hearted man, Prince; though some unspoken,
uncomprehended idea stands between us, I know your feelings."
Again the rose and the thorn! It was always so! At the very moment her
soft, sweet hand touched him caressingly, she thrust a dagger into his
heart. Aye, that was the continual "misunderstanding" which existed
between them, the thorn in the every rose she proffered.
Women like these are only tolerable when they really love; when a
powerful feeling makes them surrender themselves completely. Where this
is not the case, they are, unconsciously and involuntarily, malicious,
dangerous creatures, caressing and slaying at the same moment.
First, woe betide the man whom _they believe_ they love. For how often
such beings are mistaken in their feelings!
Such delusions do not destroy the woman, she often experiences them,
but the man who has shared them with her! Alas for him who has not kept
a cool head.
The prince was standing with his back turned to the street, gazing
thoughtfully at the beautiful woman with the fathomless, sparkling
eyes. Suddenly he saw her start and flush. Turning with the speed of
lightning, he followed the direction of her glance, but saw nothing
except the figure of a man of unusual height, with long black hair,
pass swiftly around the corner and disappear.
"Do you know that gentleman?"
"No," replied the countess frankly, "he is the person whom I saw
yesterday as we drove up the mountain."
"Pardon the indiscretion, but you blushed."
"Yes, I felt it, but I don't know why," she answered with an almost
artless innocence in her gaze. The prince could not help smiling.
"Countess, Countess!" he said, shaking his finger at her as if she were
a child. "Guard your imagination; it will prove a traitor some day."
The countess, as if with a sweet consciousness of guilt, drew down the
uplifted hand with a movement of such indescribable grace that no one
could have remained angry with her. The prince knelt at her feet an
instant, not longer than a blade of grass requires to bend before the
breeze and rise again, then he stood erect, somewhat paler than before,
but perfectly calm.
"I'll go in and tell my valet to serve our dinner here."
"If you please, Prince," replied the lady, gazing absently down the
street.
Andreas Gross entered the garden. "Everything is settled, Your
Highness. I have talked with Josepha's relatives and guardian and they
will be very glad to have you take her."
"All, even the Christ-Freyer?"
"Certainly, there is no objection."
She had expected something more and looked at the old man as if for the
rest of the message, but he added nothing.
"Ought not Freyer to come here, in order to discuss the particulars
with me?" she asked at last, almost timidly.
"Why, he goes to see no one, as I told you, and he surely would not
come to speak of Josepha, for he is ashamed of her. He says that
whatever you do will be satisfactory to him."
"Very well," replied the countess, in a somewhat disappointed tone.
"What a comical tete-a-tete!" a laughing voice suddenly exclaimed
behind the fence. The countess started up, but it was too late for
escape; she was caught.
A lady, young and elegantly dressed, accompanied by two older ones,
eagerly rushed up to her.
"Dear Countess, why have you hidden yourself here at the farthest
corner of the village? We have searched all Ammergau for you. Your
coat-of-arms on the carriage and your liveries at the old post-house
betrayed you. Yes, yes, when people want to travel _incognito_, they
must not journey with genuine Wildenau elegance. We were more cautious.
We came in a modest hired conveyance. But what a life this is! I was
obliged to sleep on straw last night. Hear and shudder! On _straw_! Did
you have a bed? You have been here since yesterday?"
"Why, Your Highness, pray take breath! Good morning, Baroness! Good
morning, Your Excellency!"
The Countess von Wildenau greeted all the ladies somewhat absently, yet
very cordially. "Will you condescend to sit on this bench?"
"Oh, you must sit here, too."
"No, It is not large enough, I am already seated."
She had taken her seat on the root of a tree, with her face turned
toward the street, in which she seemed to be deeply interested. The
ladies were accommodated on the bench, and then followed a conversation
which no pen could describe. This, that, and the other thing, matters
to which the countess had not given a single thought, an account of
everything the new comers had heard about the Ammergau people, the
appearance of the Christ, whom they had already met, a handsome man,
very handsome, with magnificent hair, and mysterious eyes--not the head
of Christ, but rather as one would imagine Faust or Odin; but there was
no approaching him, he was so unsociable. Such a pity, it would have
been so interesting to talk with him. Rumor asserted that he was in
love with a noble lady; it was very possible, there was no other way of
explaining his distant manner.
Countess von Wildenau had become very quiet, the eyes bent upon the
street had an expression of actual suffering in their depths.
Prince Emil stood in the doorway, mischievously enjoying the situation.
It was a just punishment for her capricious whims that now, after
having so insolently refused to see her friends, she should be
compelled to listen to this senseless chatter.
At last, however, he took pity on her and sent out his valet with the
table-cloth and plates.
"Oh, it is your dinner hour!" The ladies started up and Her Highness
raised her lorgnette.
"Ah, Prince Emil's valet! So the faithful Toggenburg is with you."
"Certainly, ladies!" said a voice from the door, as the prince came
forward. "Only I was too timid to venture into such a dangerous
circle."
Peals of laughter greeted him.
"Yes, yes; the Prince of Metten-Barnheim timid!"
"At present I am merely the representative of Countess Wildenau's
discharged courier, whose office, with my usual devotion, I am trying
to fill, and doing everything in my power to escape the fate of my
predecessor."
"That of being sent away?" asked the baroness somewhat maliciously.
Countess Madeleine cast a glance of friendly reproach at him. "How can
you say such things, Prince?"
"Your soup is growing cold!" cried the duchess.
"Where does Your Highness dine?"
"At the house of one of the chorus singers, where we are lodging. A man
with the bearing of an apostle, and a blacksmith by trade. It is
strange, all these people have a touch of ideality about them, and all
this beautiful long hair! Haven't you walked through the village yet?
Oh, you must, it's very odd; the people who throng around the actors in
the Passion Play are types we shall not soon see again. I'm waiting
eagerly for to-morrow. I hope our seats will be near. Farewell, dear
Countess!" The duchess took the arm of the prince, who escorted her to
the garden gate. "I hope you will take care that the countess, under
the influence of the Passion, doesn't enter a convent the day after
to-morrow."
"Your Highness forgets that I am an incorrigible heretic," laughed
Madeleine Wildenau, kissing the two ladies in waiting, in her absence
of mind, with a tenderness which they were at a loss to understand.
The prince accompanied the ladies a short distance away from the house,
while Madeleine returned to Josepha, as if seeking in the society of
the sorrowful, quiet creature, rest from the noisy conversation.
"Really, Countess von Wildenau has an over-supply of blessings. This
magnificent widow's dower, the almost boundless revenue from the
Wildenau estates, and a host of suitors!" said the baroness, after the
prince had taken leave to return to "his idol."
"Yes, but she will lose the revenue if she marries again," replied the
duchess. "The will was made in that way by Count Wildenau because his
jealousy extended beyond the grave. I know all the particulars. She
must either remain a widow or make a _very_ brilliant match; for a
woman of her temperament could _never_ accommodate herself to more
modest circumstances."
"So she is not a good match?" asked Her Excellency.
"Certainly not, for the will is so worded that on the day she exchanges
the name of Wildenau for another, the estates, with the whole income,
go to a side branch of the Wildenau family as there are no direct
heirs. It is enough to make one hate him, for the Wildenau cousins are
extravagant and avaricious men who have already squandered one fortune.
The poor countess will then have nothing except her personal property,
her few diamonds, and whatever gifts she received from her husband."
"Has she no private fortune?" asked the baroness, curiously.
"You know that she was a Princess Prankenburg, and the financial
affairs of the Prankenburg family are very much embarrassed. That is
why the beautiful young girl was sacrificed at seventeen to that
horrible old Wildenau, who in return was forced to pay her father's
debts," the duchess explained.
"Oh, so _that's_ the way the matter stands!" said Her Excellency,
drawing a long breath. "Do her various admirers know it? All the
gentlemen undoubtedly believe her to be immensely rich."
"Oh, she makes no secret of these facts," replied the duchess kindly.
"She is sincere, that must be acknowledged, and she endured a great
deal with her nervous old husband. We all know what he was; every one
feared him and he tyrannized over his wife. What was all her wealth and
splendor to her? One ought not to grudge her a taste of happiness."
"She laid aside her widow's weeds as soon as possible. People thought
that very suspicious," observed the baroness in no friendly tone.
"That is exactly why I say: she is better than her reputation, because
she scorns falsehood and hypocrisy," replied the duchess, leading the
way across a narrow bridge. The two ladies in waiting, lingering a
little behind, whispered: "_She_ scorn falsehood and deception! Why,
Your Excellency, her whole nature is treachery. She cannot exist a
moment without acting some farce! With the pious she is pious, with the
Liberals she plays the Liberal, she coquets with every party to
maintain her influence as ex-ambassadress. She cannot cease intriguing
and plotting. Now she is once more assuming the part of youthful
artlessness to bewitch this Prince Emil. Did you see that look of
embarrassment just now, like a young girl? It is enough to make one
ill!"
"Yes, just see how she has duped that handsome, clever prince, the heir
of a reigning family, too," lamented Her Excellency, who had daughters.
"It is a shocking affair, he is seen everywhere with her; and yet there
is no report of a betrothal! What do the men find in her? She
captivates them all, young and old, there is no difference."
"And she is no longer even _beautiful_. She has faded, lost all her
freshness, it is nothing but coquetry!" answered the baroness hastily,
for the duchess had stopped and was waiting for the ladies to overtake
her. So they walked on in the direction of the Passion Theatre where,
on the morrow, they were to behold the God of Love, for whose sake they
made this pious pilgrimage.
"You were rightly served, Countess Madeleine," said the prince
laughing, as they took their seats at the table. "You sent away your
true friends and fell into the hands of these false ones."
"The duchess is not false," answered the countess with a weary look,
"she is noble in thought and act."
"Like all who are in a position where they need envy no one," said the
prince, pushing aside with his spoon certain little islands of doubtful
composition which were floating in the soup. "But believe me, with
these few exceptions, no one save men, deals sincerely with an admired
woman. Women of the ordinary stamp cannot repress their envy. I should
not like to hear what is being said of us by these friends on their way
home."
"What does it matter?" answered his companion, leaving her soup
untasted.
"Our poor diplomatic corps, which had anticipated so much pleasure in
seeing you," the prince began again. "I would almost like to ask you a
favor, Countess!"
"What is it?"
"That you will invite us to dine day after to-morrow. The gentlemen
have resolved to avenge themselves nobly by offering you an ovation on
your return to Munich to-morrow evening."
"Indeed, what is it?"
"I ought not to betray the secret, but I know that you do not like
surprises. The Wildenau palace will be transformed into a temple of
flowers. Everything is already ordered, it is to be matchless, fairy
like!"
The speaker was secretly watching the impression made by his words; he
must get her away from this place at any cost! The mysterious figure
which had just called to her cheeks a flush for whose sake he would
have sacrificed years of his life, then he had noticed--nothing escaped
his keen eye and ear--her annoyed, almost jealous expression when the
ladies spoke of the "raven-locked" Christ and his love for some
high-born dame. She must leave this place ere the whim gained a firm
hold. The worthy peasant-performer might not object to the admiration
of noble ladies, a pinchback theatre-saint would hardly resist a
Countess Wildenau, if she should choose to make him the object of an
eccentric caprice.
"It is very touching in the gentlemen," said the countess; "let us
anticipate them and invite them to dine the day after to-morrow."
"Ah, there spoke my charming friend, now I am content with you. Will
you permit me, at the close of this luxurious meal, to carry the joyous
tidings to the gentlemen?"
"Do so," she answered carelessly. "And when you have delivered the
invitation, would you do me the favor to telegraph to my steward?"
"Certainly." He pushed back the plate containing an unpalatable cutlet
and drew out his note-book to make a memorandum.
"What shall I write?"
"Steward Geres, Wildenau Palace, Munich.--Day after to-morrow, Monday,
Dinner at 6 o'clock, 12 plates, 15 courses," dictated the countess.
"There, that is settled. But, Countess, twelve persons! Whom do you
intend to invite?"
"When I return the duchess' visit I will ask the three ladies, then
Prince Hohenheim and Her Excellency's two daughters will make twelve."
"But that will be terribly wearisome to the neighbors of Her
Excellency's daughters."
"Yes, still it can't be helped, I must give the poor girls a chance to
make their fortune! With the exception of Prince Hohenheim, you are all
in the market!" she said smiling.
"No one could speak so proudly save a Countess Wildenau, who knows that
every other woman only serves as a foil," replied the prince, kissing
her hand with a significant smile. She was remarkably gracious that
day; she permitted her hand to rest in his, there was a shade of
apology in her manner. Apology for what? He had no occasion to ponder
long--she was ashamed of having neglected a trusted friend for a
chimera, a nightmare, which had assumed the form of a man with
mysterious black eyes and floating locks. The ladies' stories of the
love affairs of the presumptive owner of these locks had destroyed the
dream and broken the spell of the nightmare.
"Admirable, it had happened very opportunely."
"But, Countess, the gentlemen will be disappointed, if the ladies,
also, come. Would it not be much pleasanter without them? You are far
more charming and entertaining when you are the only lady present at
our little smoking parties."
"We can have one later. The ladies will leave at ten. Then you others
can remain."
"And who will be sent away _next_, when you are wearied by this _apres
soiree_? Who will be allowed to linger on a few minutes and smoke the
last cigarette with you?" he added, coaxingly. He looked very handsome
at that moment.
"We shall see," replied the countess, and for the first time her voice
thrilled with a warmer emotion. Her hand still rested in his, she had
forgotten to withdraw it. Suddenly its warmth roused her, and his blue
eyes flashed upon her a light as brilliant as the indiscreet glare
which sometimes rouses a sleeper.
She released it, and as the dinner was over, rose from the little
table.
"Will you go with me to call on the duchess later?" she asked. "If so,
I will dress now, while you give the invitation to the gentlemen, and
you can return afterward."
"As you choose!" replied the prince in an altered tone, for the slight
variation in the lady's mood had not escaped his notice. "In half an
hour, then. Farewell!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE EVENING BEFORE THE PLAY.
Josepha sat in the countess' room at work on her new dress. She was
calm and quiet; the delight in finery which never abandons a woman to
her latest hour--the poorest peasant, if still conscious, asks for a
nicer cap when the priest comes to bring the last sacrament--had
asserted its power in her. The countess noticed it with pleasure.
"Shall you finish it soon, Josepha?"
"In an hour, Your Highness!"
"Very well, I shall return about that time, and then we'll try the
dress on."
"Oh, your ladyship, it's a sin for me to put on such a handsome gown,
nobody will see me."
"Not here, if you don't wish them to do so, but to-morrow evening we
shall go to Munich, where you will begin a new life, with no brand upon
your brow."
Josepha kissed the countess' hand; a few large tears rolled down on the
dress which was to clothe a new creature. Then she helped her mistress
to put on a walking toilette, performing her task skillfully and
quickly. The latter fixed a long, thoughtful look upon her. "You are
somewhat like your cousin, the Christ, are you not?"
"So people say!"
"I suppose he sees a great many ladies?"
"They all run after him, the high as well as the low. And it isn't the
strangers only, the village girls are crazy over him, too. He might
have _any_ one he wanted, it seems as if he fairly bewitched the
women."
"I heard that the reason for his secluded life was that he had a love
affair with some noble lady."
"Indeed?" said Josepha carelessly, "I don't know anything about it. I
don't believe it, though he would not tell me, even if it were true.
Oh, people talk about him so much, that's one reason for the envy. But
his secluded life isn't on account of any noble lady! He has had
nothing to say to anybody here since they refused to let me take part
in the Play and gossiped so much about me. Though he doesn't speak of
it, it cuts him to the heart. Alas, I am to blame, and no one else."
Countess Wildenau, obeying a sudden impulse, kissed the girl on the
forehead: "Farewell, keep up courage, don't weep, rejoice in your new
life; I will soon return."
As she passed out, she spoke to the Gross sisters commending Josepha to
their special care.
"The gentlemen are delighted, and send you their most grateful homage,"
called the prince.
"Then they are all coming?" said Countess Wildenau, taking his arm.
"All, there was no hesitation!" he answered, again noticing in his
companion's manner the restlessness which had formerly awakened his
anxiety. As they passed down the street together, her eyes were
wandering everywhere.
"She is seeking some one," thought the prince.
"Let me tell you that I am charmed with this Ammergau Christ," cried
the duchess, as they approached the blacksmith's house. She was
sitting in the garden, which contained a tolerably large manure
heap, a "Saletl," the name given to an open summer-house, and three
fruit-trees, amid which the clothes lines were stretched. On the house
was a rudely painted Madonna, life-size, with the usual bunch of
flowers, gazing with a peculiar expression at the homage offered to her
son, or at least, so it seemed to the countess.
"Have you seen him, Duchess? I am beginning to be jealous!" said the
countess with a laugh intended to be natural, but which sounded a
little forced.
The visitors entered the arbor; after an exchange of greeting, the
duchess told her guests that she had been with the ladies to the
drawing-school, where they had met Freyer. The head-master (the son of
Countess von Wildenau's host) had presented him to the ladies, and he
had been obliged to exchange a few words with them, then he made his
escape. They were "fairly _wild_." His bearing, his dignity, the
blended courtesy and reserve of his manner, so modest and yet so proud,
and those eyes!
The prince was on coals of fire.
The blacksmith was hammering outside, shoeing a horse whose hoof was so
crooked that the iron would not fit. The man's face was dripping with
sooty perspiration, yet when he turned it toward the ladies, they saw a
classic profile and soft, dreamy eyes.
"Beautiful hair and eyes appear to be a specialty among the Ammergau
peasants," said the prince somewhat abruptly, interrupting the duchess.
"Look at yonder smith, wash off the soot and we shall have a superb
head of Antinous."
"Yes, isn't that true? He is a splendid fellow, too," replied the
duchess. "Let us call him here."
The smith was summoned and, wiping the grime from his face with his
shirt sleeves, modestly approached. The prince watched with honest
admiration the man's gait and bearing, clear-cut, intelligent features,
and slender, lithe figure, which betrayed no sign of his hard labor
save in the tense sinews and muscles of the arms.
"I must apologize," he said in excellent German--the Ammergau people
use dialect only when speaking to one another--"I am in my working
clothes and scarcely fit to be seen."
"You have a charming voice. Do you sing baritone?"
"Yes, Your Highness, but I rarely sing at all. My voice unfortunately
is much injured by my hard toil, and my fingers are growing too stiff
to play on the piano, so I cannot accompany myself."
"Do you play on the piano?"
"Certainly, Your Highness."
"Good Heavens, where did you learn?"
"Here in the village, Your Highness. Each one of us learns to use some
instrument, else where should we obtain an orchestra for the Passion?"
"Think of it!" said the duchess in French, "A blacksmith who plays on
the piano; peasants who form an orchestra!" Then addressing her host in
German, she added, "I suppose you have a church choir!"
"Certainly, Your Highness."
"And what masses do you perform?"
"Oh, nearly all the beautiful ones, some dating from the ancient
Cecilian Church music, others from the later masters, Handel, Bach,
down to the most modern times. A short time ago I sung Gounod's Ave
Maria in the church, and this winter we shall give a Gethsemane by
Kempter."
"Is it possible!" said the duchess, "_c'est unique!_ Then you are
really all artists and ought not to follow such hard trades."
"Yes, Duchess, but we must _live_. Our wives and children must be
supported. _All_ cannot be wood-carvers, smiths are needed, too. If the
artisan is not rough, the trade is no disgrace."
"But have you time, with your business, for such artistic work?"
"Oh, yes, we do it in the evenings, after supper. We meet at half past
seven and often practise our music till twelve or even one o'clock."
"Oh, how tired you must be to study far into the night after the labor
of the day."
"Oh, that doesn't harm us, it is our recreation and pleasure. Art is
the only thing which lifts men above their daily cares! I would not
wish to live, if I did not possess it, and we all have the same
feeling."
The ladies exchanged glances.
"But, when do you sleep? You must be obliged to rise early in the
morning."
"Oh, we Ammergau people are excitable, we need little sleep. To bed at
one and up at five gives us rest enough."
"Well, then, you must live well, or you could not bear it."
"Yes, we live very well, we have meat every Sunday," said the smith
with much satisfaction.
"_C'est touchant!_" cried the duchess. "Meat _once_ a week? And the
rest of the time?"
"Oh, we eat something made of flour. My wife is an excellent cook, she
was the cook in Count P.'s household!" he added with great pride,
casting an affectionate glance at the plump little woman, holding a
child in her arms, standing at the door of the house. He would gladly
have presented this admirable wife to the strangers, but the ladies
seemed less interested in her.
"What do you eat in the evening?"
"We have coffee at six o'clock, and drink a few glasses of beer when we
meet at the tavern."
"And do all the Ammergau people live so?"
"All. No one wants anything different."
"Even your Christ?"
"Oh, he fares worse than we, he is unmarried and has no one to care for
him."
"What a life, dear Countess, what a life!" the duchess, murmured in
French.
"But you have a piano in your house. If you are able to get such an
instrument, you ought to afford better food," said Her Excellency.
The blacksmith smiled, "If we had had better food, we should not have
been able to buy the piano. We saved it from our stomachs."
"That is the true Ammergau spirit," said the countess earnestly. "They
will starve to secure a piano. Every endeavor is toward the ideal and
the intellectual, for which they are willing to make any personal
sacrifice. I have never seen such people."
"Nor have I. It seems as if the Passion Play gave them all a special
consecration," answered the duchess.
Countess von Wildenau rose. Her thoughts were so far away that she was
about to take leave without remembering her invitation. But Prince Emil
said impressively:
"Countess, surely you are forgetting that you intended to _invite_ the
ladies--."
"Yes, yes," she interrupted, "it had almost escaped my mind." The smith
modestly went back to his work, for the horse was growing restless, and
the odor of burnt horn and hair soon pervaded the atmosphere.
Meanwhile the countess delivered her invitation, which was accepted
with great enthusiasm.
A stately, athletic man in a blouse, carrying a chest on his shoulder,
passed the ladies. The burden was terribly heavy, for even his
powerful, well-knit frame staggered under it, and his handsome kingly
head was bowed almost to the earth.
"Look, Countess, that is Thomas Rendner the Roman procurator. We shall
soon make the acquaintance of the whole company. We sit here in the
summer-house like a spider in its web, not a fly can pass unseen."
"Good Heavens, that Pilate!" exclaimed the countess, watching him with
sympathizing eyes, "Poor man, to-day panting under an oppressive
burden, to-morrow robed in purple and crowned with a diadem, only to
exchange them again on the third day, for the porter's dusty blouse,
and take the yoke upon himself once more. What a contrast, and yet he
loses neither his balance nor his temper! Indeed I think that we can
learn as much here outside of the Passion Play, as from the spectacle
itself."
"Yes, if we watch with your deep, thoughtful eyes, my dear Countess!"
said the duchess, kissing the speaker's brow. "We will discuss this
subject farther when we drive with you the day after to-morrow."
The ladies parted. Madeleine von Wildenau, leaning on the prince's arm,
walked silently through the crowd which now, on the eve of the play,
thronged the narrow streets. The din and tumult were enough to deprive
one of sight and hearing. Dazed by the confusion, she clung closely to
her companion's arm.
"Good Heavens, is it possible that Christianity still possesses such a
power of attraction!" she murmured, involuntarily, while struggling
through the throng.
The ground in the Ettal road trembled under the roll of carriage
wheels. The last evening train had arrived, and a flood of people and
vehicles poured into the village already almost crushed beneath the
tide of human beings. Horses half driven to death, dragging at a gallop
heavy landaus crowded with six or eight persons. Lumbering wagons
containing twenty or thirty travellers just as they had climbed in,
sometimes half clinging to the steps or the boxes of the wheels, swayed
to and fro; intoxicated, excited by the mad rush and the fear of being
left behind--raging and shrieking like a horde of unchained fiends come
to disturb the sacred drama rather than pious pilgrims who wished to
witness it, the frantic mob poured in. "_Sauve qui peut_" was the
motto, the prince lifted the countess on a small post by the roadside.
Just at that moment the fire-brigade marched by to watch the theatre.
It was said that several of the neighboring parishes, envious of
Ammergau, had threatened to ruin the Play by setting the theatre on
fire. Fire engines and strangers' carriages passed pell-mell. The
people of Ammergau themselves, alarmed and enraged by the cruel threat,
were completely disconcerted; passionate discussions, vehement
commands, and urgent entreaties were heard on all sides. Prompt and
energetic action was requisite, the fate of all Ammergau was at stake.
The bells now began to ring and at the same moment the first of the
twenty-five cannon shots which were to consecrate the morrow's festival
was discharged, and the musicians passed through the streets.
The air fairly quivered with the deafening uproar of all these mingling
waves of sound. Darkness was gathering, the countess grew giddy, she
felt as if she were stifling in the tumult. A pair of horses fell just
below them, causing a break in the line of carriages, which the prince
used to get his companion across, and she at last reached home, almost
fainting. Her soul was stirred to its inmost depths. What was the power
which produced such effects?
Was this the calm, petty doctrine, which had been inculcated so
theoretically and coldly at the school-room desk and from the pulpit,
and with which, when a child, she has been disgusted by an
incomprehensible school-catechism? Was this the doctrine which, from
earliest childhood, had been nothing more than a wearisome dead letter,
to which, as it had become the religion of the state, an official visit
to church was due from time to time, just as, on certain days, cards
were left on ambassadors and government officials?
The wind still bore from the village the noise of the throngs of
people, the ringing of the bells, and the thunder of the cannon,
blended with occasional bursts of music. The countess had had similar
experiences when tidings of great victories had been received during
the last war, but those were _facts_. For the first time in her life
she asked herself if Christianity was a fact? And if not, if it was
only an idea, what inherent power, after the lapse of nearly two
thousand years, produced such an effect?
Why did all these people come--why did she _herself_? The human race is
homesick, it no longer knows for what; it is only a vague impulse, but
one which instinctively draws it in the direction where it perceives a
sign, a vestige of what it has lost and forever seeks. Such, she knows
it now, such is the feeling of all the throngs that have flocked hither
to-day, she realized that at this moment she was a microcosm of weary,
wandering mankind seeking for salvation.
And as when, deceived and disappointed in everything, we seek the
picture of some dead friend, long since forgotten, and press it weeping
to our lips, she clung to the image of the Redeemer. Now that
everything had deluded her, no system which had boastfully promised a
victory over calamity and death had stood the test, after one makeshift
had supplanted another without supplying what was lacking, after all
the vaunted remedies of philosophy and materialism proved mere
palliatives which make the evil endurable for the moment but do not
heal it, suffering, cheated humanity was suddenly seeking the image of
the lost friend so long forgotten. But a dead friend cannot come forth
from a picture, a painted heart can no longer beat. Could _Christ_ rise
again in His image? Could _His_ word live once more on the lips of a
stranger? And would the drops of artificial blood, trickling from the
brow of the personified Messiah, possess redeeming power?
That was the miracle which attracted the throngs from far and near,
_that_ must be the marvel, and tomorrow it would be revealed.
"Of what are you dreaming, Countess Madeleine?" asked the prince after
a pause which she had spent in the wild-grape arbor near the house
gazing into vacancy, with her head resting on her hand. She looked up,
glancing at him as if she had entirely forgotten his presence. "I don't
know what is the cause of my emotion, the tumult in the village has
stirred me deeply! I feel that only potent things could send such a
storm before them, and it seems as if it was the portent of some
wonderful event!"
"Good Heavens! What extravagant fancies, my dear Countess! I believe
you add to all your rich gifts the dangerous one of poesy! I admire and
honor you for it--but I can perceive in this storm nothing save a proof
that curiosity is the greatest and most universal trait in human
character, and that these throngs desire nothing more than the
satisfaction of their curiosity. The affair is fashionable just now,
and that explains the whole."
"Prince, I pity you for what you have just said," replied the countess,
rising. Her face wore the same cold, lifeless expression as on the day
of her arrival.
"But, my dearest friend, for Heavens's sake tell me, did _you_ and _I_
come from any other motive than curiosity?"
"You, no! I, yes!"
"Don't say that, _chere amie_. You, the scholar, superior to us all in
learning; you, the disciple of Schopenhauer, the proud philosopher, the
believer in Nirvana."
"Yes, I, Prince!" cried the countess, "The philosopher who was not
happy for an hour, not content for a moment. What is this Nirvana? A
stone idol, which the fruitless speculation of our times has conjured
from the rubbish of archaeological excavations, and which stares at us
with its vacant eyes until we fall into an intellectual hypnotism which
we mistake for peace." An expression of bitter sarcasm rested on her
lips. "I came here to bring pessimism and Christianity face to face. I
thought it would be very novel to see the stone idol Nirvana, with his
hands on his lap and the silence of eternal death on his lips, watch
the martyr, dripping with sweat and blood, bear His own cross to the
place of execution and cheerfully take up the work where Buddha
faltered; on the boundary of non-existence. I wanted to see how the two
would treat each other, if for nothing more than a comparative study of
religion."
"You are irresistible in your charming mockery, dearest Countess, yet
logically I cannot confess myself conquered!" replied the prince. The
countess smiled: "Of course, when did a man ever acknowledge that to a
woman, where intellectual matters were concerned? A sunny curl, the
seductive arch of an upper lip, a pair of blue eyes sparkling with
tears will make you lords of creation the dupes of the most ordinary
coquette or even the yielding toy of the dullest ignorance. We women
all know it! But, if we assail your dry logic, you are as unconquerable
as Antaeus so long as he stood upon the earth! You, too, could only be
vanquished by whoever had the power to lift you from the ground where
_you_ stand."
"You might have that power, Countess. Not by your arguments, but by
your eyes. You know that _one_ loving glance would not only lift me
from the earth but into heaven, and then you could do with me what you
would."
"You have forfeited the loving glance! Perhaps it might have _rewarded_
your assent, but it would never _purchase_ it, I scorn bribed judges,
for I am sure of my cause!"
"Countess, pardon my frankness: it is a pity that you have so much
intellect."
"Why?"
"Because it leads you into sophistical by-ways; your tendency to
mysticism gives an apparently logical foundation and thereby
strengthens you the more in this dangerous course. A more simple,
temperate judgment would _guard_ you from it."
"Well, Prince--" she looked at him pityingly, contemptuously--"may
Heaven preserve me from _such_ a judgment as well as from all who may
seek to supply its place to me. Excuse me for this evening. I should
like to devote an hour to these worthy people and soothe my nerves--I
have been too much excited by the scenes we have witnessed. Goodnight,
Prince!"
Prince Emil turned pale. "Good-night, Countess. Perhaps to-morrow you
will be somewhat more humane in this cat and mouse game; to-day I am
sent home with a bleeding wound." With lips firmly compressed, he bowed
his farewell and left the garden. Madeleine looked after him: "He is
angry. I cannot help him, he deserved it. Oh, foolish man, who deemed
yourself so clever! Do you suppose this glowing heart desires no other
revelations than those of pure reason? Do you imagine that the
arguments of all the philosophical systems of humanity could offer it
that for which it longs? Shall I find it? Heaven knows! But one thing
is certain, I shall no longer seek it in _you_."
The sound of moans and low sobs came from the chamber above the
countess' room. It was Josepha. Countess Wildenau passed through the
little trap-door and entered it. The girl was kneeling beside the bed,
with her face buried in the pillows, to shut out the thunder of the
cannon and the sound of the bells, which summoned the actors in the
sacred Play from which she alone, the sinner, the outcast, was shut
out.
Mary Magdalene, too, had sinned and erred, yet she had been suffered to
remain near the Lord. She was permitted to touch His divine body and to
wipe His feet with her hair! But _she_ was not allowed to render this
service to His _image_! She grasped the mass of wonderful silken locks
which fell in loosened masses over her shoulders. What did she care for
this beautiful hair now? She would fain cut it off and throw it into
the Ammer or, better still, bury it in the earth, the earth on which
the Passion Theatre stood. With a hasty movement, she snatched a pair
of shears which lay beside the bed, and just as the countess' foot
touched the threshold, a sharp, cutting sound was heard and the most
beautiful red hair that ever adorned a girl's head fell like a dying
flame at her feet. "Josepha, what are you doing?" cried the countess,
"Oh, what a pity to lose that magnificent hair!"
"What do I care for it?" sobbed Josepha, "It can never be seen in the
Play! When the performance is over, I will slip into the theatre before
we leave and bury it under the stage, where the cross stands. There I
will leave it, there it shall stay, since I am no longer able to make
it serve Him." She threw herself into the countess' arms and hid her
tear-stained face upon her bosom. Alas, she was not even allowed to
appear among the populace, she alone was banished from the cross, yet
she knew that the _real_ Saviour would have suffered her to be at His
feet as well as Mary Magdalene.
"Console yourself, Josepha, your belief does not deceive you. The real
Christ would not have punished you so cruelly. Men are always more
severe than God. Whence should they obtain divine magnanimity, they are
so petty. They are like a servant who is arrogant and avaricious for
his master because he does not understand his wishes and turns from the
door the poor whom his master would gladly have welcomed and
refreshed." She kissed the young girl's brow. "Be calm, Josepha, gather
up your hair, you shall bury it to-morrow in the earth which is so dear
to you. I promise that I will think of you when the other Magdalene
appears; your shadow shall stand between her and me, so that I shall
see you alone! Will this be a slight consolation to you?"
Josepha, for the first time, looked up into the countess' eyes with a
smile. "Yes, it is a comfort. Ah, you are so kind, you take pity on me
while all reproach and condemn me."
"Oh, Josepha! If people judged thus, which of us would be warranted in
casting the first stone at you?" The countess uttered the words with
deep earnestness, and thoughtfully left the room.
CHAPTER VII.
THE PASSION PLAY.
Day was dawning. The first rays of the morning sun, ever broader and
brighter, were darting through the air, whose blue waves surged and
quivered under the flaming couisers of the ascending god of day.
Aphrodite seemed to have bathed and left her veil in the foam of the
wild mountain stream into which the penitent Magdalene had tried to
throw herself. Apollo in graceful sport, had gathered the little white
clouds to conceal the goddess and they waved and fluttered merrily in
the morning breeze around the rushing chariot. Then, as if the
thundering hoof-beats of the fiery chargers had echoed from the vaulted
arch of the firmament, the solemn roar of cannon announced the approach
of the _other_ god, the poor, unassuming, scourged divinity in His
beggar-garb. The radiant charioteer above curbed his impatient steeds
and gazed down from his serene height upon the conflict, the torturing,
silent conflict of suffering upon the bloody battlefield of the
timorous earth. Smiling, he shook his divine head, for he could not
understand the cause of all this. Why should a god impose upon Himself
such misery and humiliation! But he knows that He was a more powerful
god, for _he_ was forced to fly from the zenith when the former rose
from His grave.--So thought Helios, glancing over at the gentle goddess
Selene, whose wan face, paling in his presence, was turned full toward
the earth. She could not bear to behold the harrowing spectacle, she
was the divinity of peace and slumber, so, averting her mild
countenance, she bade Helios farewell and floated away to happier
realms.
Blest gods, ye who sit throned in eternal beauty, eternal peace; ye who
are untouched by the grief and suffering of the human race, who descend
to earth merely to taste the joys of mortals when it pleases ye to add
them to your divine delights, look down upon the gods whom sorrowing
humanity, laden with the primeval curse, summoned from his heaven to
aid, where none of ye aided, to give what none of ye gave, _the heart's
blood of love!_ Gaze from your selfish pleasures, ye gay Hellenic
deities, behold from your Valhalla, grim divinities of the Norsemen,
look hither, ye dull, stupid idols of ancient India, hither where, from
love for the human race, a god bleeds upon the martyr's cross--behold
and turn pale! For when the monstrous deed is done, and the night has
passed. He will cast aside His humble garb and shine in His divine
glory. Ye will then be nothing but the rainbow which shimmers in
changeful hues above His head! "Excelsior!" echoes a voice through the
pure morning-sky and: "Gloria in excelsis, Deo!" peals from the church,
as the priests chant the early mass.
An hour later the prince stopped before the door in a carriage to
convey the countess to the Passion Theatre, for the way was long and
rough.
He gave the Gross sisters strict orders to have everything ready for
Countess Wildenau's departure at the close of the performance.
"The carriages must stand packed with the luggage before the theatre
when we come out. The new maid must not be late."
Madeleine von Wildenau made no objection to all this, she was very pale
and deeply agitated. Ludwig Gross, who was also just going to the
theatre, was obliged to enter the carriage, too; the countess would
listen to no refusal. The prince looked coldly at him. Ludwig Gross
raised his hat, saying courteously:
"May I request an introduction?"
The lady blushed. "Herr Gross, head-master of the drawing-school!" She
paused a moment in embarrassment, Ludwig's bronze countenance still
retained its expectant expression.
"The Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim," said the prince, relieving
the countess' embarrassment, and raising his hat.
The drawing-master's delicate tact instantly perceived Prince Emil's
generous intention.
"Pardon me," he said, with a shade of bashfulness, "I did not know that
I was in the presence of a gentleman of such high rank--"
"No, no, you were perfectly right," interrupted Prince Emil, who was
pleased with the man's modest confidence, and immediately entered into
conversation with him. He asked various questions, and Ludwig described
how he was frequently compelled to get suitable figures for his tableau
from the forests and the fields, because the better educated people all
had parts assigned to them, and how difficult it was to work with this
untrained material; especially as he had barely two or three minutes to
arrange a tableau containing three hundred persons.
The countess gazed absently at the motley throngs surging toward the
Passion Theatre. The fresh morning breeze blew into the carriage. All
nature was full of gladness, a festal joy which even the countess'
richly caparisoned horses seemed to share, for they pranced gaily and
dashed swiftly on as if they would fain vie with the sun-god's steeds
above. The Bavarian flags on the Passion Theatre fluttered merrily
against the blue sky, and now another discharge of cannon announced the
commencement of the performance. The carriage made its way with much
difficulty through the multitude to the entrance, which was surrounded
by natives of Ammergau. Ludwig Gross ordered the driver to stop, and
sprang out. All respectfully made way for him, raising their hats: "Ah,
Herr Gross! The drawing-master! Good-day!"
"Good-day," replied Ludwig Gross, then unceremoniously giving the
countess his arm, requested the prince to follow and led them through
several side passages, to which strangers were not admitted, into the
space reserved for boxes, where two fine-looking young men, also
members of the Gross family, the "ushers" were taking tickets. Ludwig
lifted his hat and left them to go to his work. The prince shook hands
with him and expressed his thanks. "A cultured man!" he said, after
Ludwig had gone. Meanwhile one of the ushers had conducted the countess
to her seat.
There directly before her lay the long-desired goal! A huge
amphitheatre built in the Greek style. Between the boxes, which
overlooked the whole, and the stage, under the open sky, extended a
vast space, whose seats rose to the height of a house. The orchestra,
too, was roofless, as also were the proscenium and the stage, at whose
extreme right and left stood the houses of Pilate and Caiaphas, between
which stretched the streets of Jerusalem. The chorus was stationed on
the proscenium and here all the great scenes in which the populace took
part were performed. The main stage, occupying the centre only, as in
the Greek theatre, was a temple-like covered building with a curtain,
in a certain sense a theatre within a theatre, where the scenes that
required a smaller frame were set. Beyond, the whole was surrounded by
the amphitheatre of the lofty mountains gazing down in majestic repose,
surmounting and crowning all.
The orchestra was playing the last bars of the overture and the surging
and hum of the thousands who were finding their seats had at last
ceased. The chorus came forward, all the singers clad in the Greek
costume, at their head as choragus Johannes Diemer, arrayed in diadem
and toga. A majestic figure of true priestly dignity, he moved across
the stage, fully imbued with the spirit of the sublime drama which it
was his honorable office to open. Deep silence now reigned throughout
the audience. It seemed as if nature herself was listening outside, the
whispering morning breeze held its breath, and not a single bird-note
was heard. The repose of the Sabbath spread its wings protectingly over
the whole scene, that nothing should disturb this consecrated mood.
As the stately figures advanced wearing their costly robes with as much
dignity as if they had never been clad in any other garments, or would
be forced again to exchange them for the coarse torn blouse of toil; as
they began to display the art acquired with such self-sacrificing
devotion after a wearisome day of labor, and the choragus in the
purest, noblest intonation began the first lines:
"Sink prostrate, overwhelmed with sacred awe,
Oh, human race, bowed by the curse of God!"
the countess' heart was suddenly stirred by a new emotion and tears
filled her eyes.
"Eternal God, Thy stammering children hear,
For children's language, aye, is stammering."
In these words the devout lips expressed the sacred meaning underlying
the childish pastime, and those who heard it feel themselves once more
children--children of the one omnipresent Father.
The prologue was over. The curtain of the central stage rolled up, and
the first tableau, the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise, was
revealed. Countess Madeleine gazed at it with kindly eyes, for Ludwig
Gross' refined artistic instinct was visible to her, his firm hand had
shaped the rude material into these graceful lines. A second tableau
followed--the Adoration of the Cross. An empty cross, steeped in light,
stood on a height worshipped by groups of children and angels. The
key-note was thus given and the drama began.--The first scene was
before the temple at Jerusalem--the Saviour's entry was expected.
Madeleine von Wildenau's heart throbbed heavily. She did not herself
know the cause of her emotion--it almost robbed her of breath--will it
be _he_ whom she expects, to whom she is bound by some incomprehensible,
mysterious spell? Will she find him?
Shouts of "Hosanna!" echoed from the distance--an increasing tumult was
audible. A crowd of people, rejoicing and singing praises, poured out
of the streets of Jerusalem--the first heralds of the procession
appeared, breathlessly announcing His approach.
An indescribable fear overpowered the countess--but it now seemed to
her as if she did not dread the man whom she expected to see, but Him
he was to personate. The audience, too, became restless, a vibrating
movement ran like a faint whisper through the multitude: "He is
coming!"
The procession now poured upon the stage, a surging mass--passionately
excited people waving palms, and in their midst, mounted on a miserable
beast of burden--the Master of the World.
The countess scarcely dared to look, she feared the dismounting, which
might shock her aesthetic sense. But lightly as a thought, with scarcely
a movement, he had already slipped from the animal, not one of the
thousands saw how.
"It is he!" Madeleine's brain whirled, an unspeakable joy overwhelmed
her: "When shall I behold thee face to face!" her own words, spoken the
evening before, rang in her ears and--the realization was standing
before her.
"The Christ!"--a thrill of reverence stirred the throng. Aye, it was
He, from head to foot! He had not uttered a word, yet all hearts sank
conquered at his feet. Aye, that was the glance, the dignity, the
calmness of a God! That was the soul which embraced and cherished a
world--that was the heart of love which sacrificed itself for man--died
upon the cross.
Now the lips parted and, like an airy, winged genius the words soared
upward: A voice like an angel's shouting through the universe: "Peace,
peace on earth!"--now clear and resonant as Easter bells, now gentle
and tender as a mother's soothing song beside the bed of her sick
child. "Source of love--thou art He!"
Mute, motionless, as if transfigured, the countess gazed at the
miracle--and with her thousands in the same mood. But from her a secret
bond stretched to him--from her alone among the thousands--a prophetic,
divine bond, woven by their yearning souls on that night after she had
beheld the face from which the God so fervently implored now smiled
consent.
The drama pursued its course.
Christ looked around and perceived the traders with their wares, and
the tables of the money-changers in the court of the temple. As cloud
after cloud gradually rises in the blue sky and conceals the sun, noble
indignation darkened the mild countenance, and the eyes flashed with a
light which reminded Helios, watching above, of the darts of Zeus.
"My House," saith the Lord, "shall be called a house of prayer, but ye
have made it a den of thieves!" And as though His wrath was a power,
which emanating from Him acted without any movement of His, a hurricane
seemed to sweep over the stands of the traders, while not a single
vehement motion destroyed the calmness of the majestic figure. The
tables were overthrown, the money rolled on the ground, the cages of
the doves burst open, and the frightened birds soared with arrowy speed
over the heads of the spectators. The traders raged and shrieked, "My
doves, my doves! My money!" and rushed to save the silver coins and
scattered wares. But He stood motionless amid the tumult, like the
stone of which He said: "Whosoever shall fall upon that stone shall be
broken; but on whomsoever it shall fall, it will grind him to powder."
Then, with royal dignity. He swung the scourge over the backs bowed to
seize their paltry gains. "Take these things hence, make not my
Father's house a house of merchandise!" He did not strike, yet it
seemed as though the scourge had fallen, for the dealers fled in wild
confusion before the uplifted hand, and terror seized the Pharisees.
They perceived that He who stood before them was strong enough to crush
them all! His breath had the might of the storm, His glance was
consuming flame--His lash felled without striking--He need only will,
and "in three days" He would build a new temple as He boasted. Roaring
like the sea in a tempest, the exulting populace surrounded Him,
yielding to His sway as the waves recede before the breath of the
mighty ruler.--Aye, this was the potent spirit of the Jehovah of the
Jews, the Zeus of the Greeks, the Jupiter of the Romans. This man was
the Son of the God who created Heaven and earth, and it would be an
easy matter for the Heir of this power to crush the Pharisees without
stirring a finger--if He desired, but that was the point; it was _not_
His will, for His mission was a different one! The head once more
drooped humbly, the brow, corrugated with anger, smoothed. "I have done
my Father's bidding--I have saved the honor of His House!" The storm
died away into a whisper, and the mild gaze rested forgivingly upon His
foes.
The countess' virile heart almost rebelled against this humility, and
would fain have cried out: "Thou _art_ the Son of God, help Thyself!"
Her sense of justice, formed according to human ideas, was opposed to
this toleration, this sacrifice of the most sacred rights! Like Helios
in the vault above, she could not understand the grandeur, the divinity
of self humiliation, of suffering truth and purity to be judged by
falsehood and hypocrisy--instead of using His own power to destroy
them.
As if the personator of Christ suspected her thoughts he suddenly fixed
his glance, above the thousands of heads, directly upon her and like a
divine message the words fell from his lips: "But in many hearts, day
will soon dawn!" Then, turning with indescribable gentleness to His
disciples. He added: "Come, let us go into the temple and there worship
the Father!" He walked toward it, yet it did not seem as if his feet
moved; He vanished from the spectators' eyes noiselessly, gradually,
like the fleeting of a happy moment.
The countess covered her eyes with her hand--she felt as if she were
dreaming a sadly beautiful dream. The prince watched her silently, but
intently. Nods and gestures of greeting came from the boxes on all
sides--from the duchess, the diplomatic corps, and numerous
acquaintances who happened to be there--but the countess saw nothing.
The drama went on. It was the old story of the warfare of baseness
against nobility, falsehood against truth. The Pharisees availed
themselves of the injury to the tradesmen's interests to make them
their allies. The populace, easily deluded, was incited against the
agitator from "Galilee," who wished to rob them of the faith of their
fathers and drive the dealers from the temple. So the conspiracy arose
and swelled to an avalanche to crush the sacred head! Christ had dealt
a rude blow to all that was base in human nature, but baseness was the
greater power, to which even God must succumb while He remained a
dweller upon earth. But, even in yielding, He conquered--death bestowed
the palm of victory!
Between the first and second act was a tableau, "Joseph sold by his
Brethren." With thoughtful discrimination every important incident in
the Play was suggested by a corresponding event in the Old Testament,
represented by a tableau, in order to show the close connection between
the Old and the New Testament and verify the words: "that all things
which are written may be fulfilled."
At last the curtain rose again and revealed the Sanhedrim assembled for
judgment. Here sat the leaders of the people of Israel, and also of
Oberammergau. In the midst was Caiaphas, the High-priest, the Chief of
the Sanhedrim, the burgomaster of Ammergau and chief manager of the
Passion Play. At his right and left sat the oldest members of the
community of Ammergau, an old man with a remarkably fine face and long
white beard, as Annas, and the sacristan, an impressive figure, as
Nathanael. On both sides, in a wide circle, were the principal men in
the parish robed as priests and Pharisees. What heads! What figures!
The burgomaster, Caiaphas, rose and, with a brief address, opened the
discussion. Poor Son of God, how wilt Thou fare in the presence of this
mighty one of earth? The burgomaster was the type of the fanatical,
ambitious priest, not a blind, dull zealot--nay, he was the
representative of the aristocratic hierarchy, the distinguished men of
the highest intelligence and culture. A face rigid as though chiselled
from stone, yet animated by an intellect of diabolical superiority,
which would never confess itself conquered, which no terror could
intimidate, no marvel dazzel, no suffering move. Tall and handsome in
the very flower of manhood, with eyes whose glances pierced like
javelins, a tiara on his haughty head, robed in all the pomp of
Oriental priestly dignity, every clanking ornament a symbol of his
arrogant, iron nature, every motion of his delicate white hands, every
fold of his artistically draped mantle, every hair of his flowing beard
a proof of that perfect conscious mastery of outward ceremonial
peculiar to those who are accustomed to play a shrewdly planned part
before the public. Thus he stood, terrible yet fascinating, repellent
yet attractive, nay to the trained eye of an artist who could
appreciate this masterly blending of the most contradictory influences,
positively enthralling.
This was the effect produced upon Countess Wildenau. The feeling of
indication roused by the incomprehensible humiliation of the divine
Martyr almost tempted her to side with the resolute foe who manfully
defended his own honor with his god's. A noble-hearted woman cannot
withstand the influence of genuine intellectual manfulness, and until
the martyrdom of Christ became _heroism_, the firm, unyielding
high-priest exerted an irresistible charm over the countess. The
conscious mastery, the genius of the performer, the perfection of his
acting, roused and riveted the artistic interest of the cultivated
woman, and as, with the people of Ammergau, the individual and the
actor are not two distinct personages, as among professional artists,
she knew that the man before her also possessed a lofty nature, and the
nimbus of Ammergau constantly increased, the spirit ruling the whole
obtained still greater sway. The sacristan was also an imposing figure
as Nathanael, the second high-priest, who, with all the power of
Pharisaical superiority and sophistry, appeared as Christ's accuser.
The eloquence of these two judges was overpowered, and into the surging
waves of passion, Annas, in his venerable dignity, dropped with steady
hand the sharp anchor of cold, pitiless resolve. An imposing, sinister
assembly was this great Sanhedrim, and every spectator involuntarily
felt the dread always inspired by a circle of stern, cruel despots.
Poor Lamb, what will be Thy fate?
Destiny pursued its course. In the next act Christ announced His
approaching death to the disciples. Now it seemed as though He bore
upon His brow an invisible helm of victory, on which the dove of the
Holy Spirit rested with outspread wings. Now He was the hero--the hero
who _chose_ death. Yet meekness was diffused throughout His whole
bearing, was the impress of His being; the meekness which spares others
but does not tremble for itself. A new perception dawned upon the
countess: to be strong yet gentle was the highest nobility of the
soul--and as here also the character and its personator were one, she
knew that the men before her possessed these attributes: strength and
gentleness. Now her defiant spirit at last melted and she longed to
take Him to her heart to atone for the injustice of the human race. She
thanked Simon for receiving the condemned man under his hospitable
roof.
"Aye, love Him--I, too, love Him?" she longed to cry out to those who
were ministering to Him. But when Mary Magdalene touched and anointed
Him she averted her eyes, for she grudged her the privilege and thought
of her poor, beautiful penitent at home. As He uttered the words:
"Rise, Magdalene. Darkness is gathering, and the wintry storms are
raging. Yet be comforted! In the early morning, in the Spring garden,
thou wilt see me again!" tears streamed form her eyes; "When will the
morning dawn that I shall greet Thee--in the Spring garden, redeeming
love?" asked a voice in her heart.
But when Mary appeared and Christ took leave of His mother--when the
latter sank upon the breast of her divine son and He consoled her with
a voice whose sweetness no ear had ever heard equalled, a feeling which
she had never experienced took possession of her: it was neither envy
nor jealousy--only a sorrowful longing: "If I were only in her place!"
And when Christ said: "My hour is come; now is my soul troubled; and
what shall I say? Father, save me from this hour: but for this cause
came I unto this hour!" and Mary, remembering Simeon's words, cried:
"Simeon, thy prediction--'a sword shall pierce through thy own soul,
also'--is now fulfilled!" the countess, for the first time, understood
the meaning of the pictures of Mary with the seven swords in her heart;
her own was bleeding from the keenness of her anguish. Now, overpowered
with emotion, He again extended His arms: "Mother, mother, receive thy
son's fervent gratitude for all the love and faith which thou hast
bestowed in the thirty-three years of my life: Farewell, dear mother!"
The countess felt as if she would no longer endure it--that she must
sink in a sea of grief and yearning.
"My son, where shall I see Thee again?" asked Mary.
"Yonder, dear mother, where the words of the Scripture shall be
fulfilled: 'He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep
before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth.'" Then, while
the others were weeping over the impending calamity, Christ said: "Be
not overcome in the first struggle. Trust in me." And, as He spoke, the
loving soul knew that it might rest on Him and be secure.
He moved away. Serene, noble, yet humble, He went to meet His death.
The curtain fell--but this time there was no exchange of greetings from
the boxes, the faces of their occupants were covered to conceal the
tears of which they were ashamed, yet could not restrain.
The countess and her companion remained silent. Madeleine's forehead
rested on her hand--the prince was secretly wiping his eyes.
"People of God, lo, thy Saviour is near! The Redeemer, long promised,
hath come!" sang the chorus, and the curtain rising, showed Christ and
his disciples on the way to Jerusalem. It was the moment that Christ
wept over Jerusalem. Tears of the keenest anguish which can pierce the
heart of a God, tears for the sins of the world! "Jerusalem, Jerusalem,
if thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things
which belongs unto thy peace! But now they are hid from thine eyes."
The disciples entreated their Master not to enter the hostile city and
thus avoid the crime which it was destined to commit. Or to enter and
show Himself in His power, to judge and to reward.
"Children, what ye desire will be done in its time, but my ways are
ordered by my Father, and thus saith the Lord: 'My thoughts are not
your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways.'"
And, loyal and obedient, He followed the path of death. Judas alone
lingered behind, resolving to leave the fallen greatness which promised
no earthly profit and would bring danger and disgrace upon its
adherents. In this mood he was met by Dathan, Andreas Gross, who was
seeking a tool for the vengeance of the money changers. Finding it in
Judas, he took him before the Sanhedrim.
An impressive and touching tableau now introduced a new period, the
gathering of manna in the wilderness, which refreshed the starving
children of Israel. A second followed: The colossal bunch of grapes
from Canaan. "The Lord miraculously fed the multitude in the desert
with the manna and rejoiced their hearts with the grapes of Canaan, but
Jesus offers us a richer banquet from Heaven. From the mystery of His
body and blood flows mercy and salvation!" sang the chorus. The curtain
rose again, Christ was at supper with His disciples. He addressed them
in words of calm farewell. But they did not yet fully understand, for
they asked who would be _first_ in His heavenly kingdom?
His only answer was to lay aside His upper garment, gird, with divine
dignity, a cloth about His loins, and kneel to perform for the
disciples the humblest service--_the washing of their feet_.
The human race looked on in breathless wonder--viewless bands of angels
soared downward and the demons of pride and defiance in human nature
fled and hid themselves in the inmost recesses of their troubled
hearts.
Aye, the strong soul of the woman, which had at first rebelled against
the patience of the suffering God--now understood it and to her also
light came, as He had promised and, by the omnipotent feeling which
urged her to the feet of Him who knelt rendering the lowliest service
to the least of His disciples, she perceived the divinity of
_humility_!
It was over. He had risen and put on His upper garment; He stood with
His figure drawn up to His full height and gazed around the circle:
"Now ye are clean, but not _all_!"--and His glance rested mournfully on
Peter, who before the cock crew, would deny Him thrice, and on Judas,
who would betray Him for thirty pieces of silver.
Then He again took His seat and, as the presentiment of approaching
death transfigures even the most commonplace mortal and illumines the
struggling soul at the moment of its separation from the body, so the
_God_ transfigured the earthly form of the "Son of Man" and appeared
more and more plainly on the pallid face, ere he left the frail husk
which He had chosen for His transitory habitation. And as the dying man
distributes his property among his heirs, _He_ bequeathed His. But He
had nothing to give, save Himself. As the cloud dissolves into millions
of raindrops which the thirsting earth drinks, He divided Himself into
millions of atoms which, in the course of the ages, were to refresh
millions of human beings with the banquet of love. His body and His
blood were his legacy. He divided it into countless portions, to
distribute it among countless heirs, yet it remained _one_ and the
_part_ is to every one _the whole_. For as an element remains a great
unity, no matter into how many atoms it may dissolve--as water is
always water whether in single drops or in the ocean--fire always fire
in sparks or a conflagration--so Christ is _always Christ_ in the drops
of the chalice and the particles of the bread, as well as in His
original person, for He, _too_, is an element, _the element of
divinity_.
As kindred kneel around the bedside of a loved one who is dying, bedew
his hand with tears, and utter the last entreaty: "Forgive us, if we
have ever wounded you?" the thousands of spectators longed to kneel,
and there was not one who did not yearn to press his lips to the
wonderful hand which was distributing the bread, and cry: "Forgive us
our sins." But as reverence for the dying restrains loud lamentations,
the spectators controlled themselves in order not to sob aloud and thus
disturb the divine peace throned upon the Conqueror's brow.
Destiny now relentlessly pursued its course. Judas sold his master for
thirty pieces of silver, and they were paid to him before the
Sanhedrim. The pieces of silver rang on the stone table upon which they
were counted out. It seemed as if the clear sound was sharply piercing
the world, like the edge of a scythe destined to mow down the holiest
things.
The priests exulted, there was joy in the camp of the foes! All that
human arrogance and self-conceit could accomplish, raised its head
triumphantly in Caiaphas. The regal priest stood so firmly upon
the height of his secular power that nothing could overthrow him,
and--Jesus of Nazareth must die!
So the evening came when Christ went with the twelve disciples to the
Mount of Olives to await His doom.
"Father, the hour is come; glorify thy Son, that thy Son may also
glorify thee! I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do--I
have manifested thy name unto men! Father, sanctify them through thy
truth; that they all may be one, as thou, Father, art in me and I in
thee!"
He climbed the lonely mount in the garden of olive trees to pass
through the last agony, the agony of death, which seized upon even the
Son of God so long as He was still bound by the laws of the human body.
"Father, if thou be willing, let this cup pass from me!"
Here Freyer's acting reached its height; it was no longer semblance,
but reality. The sweat fell in burning drops from his brow, and tears
streamed from his eyes. "Yet not _my_ will, but _Thine_ be done--Thy
sacred will!" Clasping his trembling hands, he flung himself prone on
the ground, hiding his tear-stained face, "Father--Thy son--hear Him!"
The throng breathed more and more heavily, the tears flowed faster. The
heart of all humanity was touched with the anguished cry: "Oh, sins of
humanity, ye crush me--oh, the terrible burden--the bitter cup!"
With this anguish the Son of God first drew near to the human race, in
this suffering He first bent down to mortals that they might embrace
Him lovingly like a mortal brother. And it was so at this moment, also!
They would fain have dragged Him from the threatening cross, defended
Him with their own bodies, purchased his release at any cost--too late,
_this_ repentance should have come several centuries earlier.
The hour of temptation was over. The disciples had slept and left him
alone--but the angel of the Lord had comforted Him, the angel whom God
sends to every one who is deserted by men. He was himself again--the
Conqueror of the World!
Judas came with the officers and pressed upon the sweet mouth on which
the world would fain hang in blissful self-forgetfulness--the traitor's
kiss.
"Judas, can you touch those lips and not fall at the feet of Him you
have betrayed?" cried a voice in Madeleine von Wildenau's heart. "Can
you _kiss_ the lips which so patiently endure the death-dealing caress,
and not find your hate transformed to love?" Ah, only the divine can
recognize the divine, only sympathetic natures attract one another!
Judas is the symbol of the godless world, which would no longer
perceive God's presence, even if He came on earth once more. The
soldiers, brawny fellows, fell to the ground as He stood before them
with the words: "I am Jesus of Nazareth!" and He was forced to say:
"Rise! Fear ye not!" that they might accomplish their work--but Judas
remained unmoved and delivered Him up.
Christ was a prisoner and descended step by step into the deepest
ignominy. But no matter through what mire of baseness and brutality
they dragged Him, haling Him from trial to trial--nothing robbed Him of
the majesty of the Redeemer! And if His speech had been full of power,
so was His silence! Before the Sanhedrim, before Herod, and finally
before Pilate, _He_ was the king, and the mighty ones of earth were
insignificant in _His_ presence.
"Who knows whether this man is not the son of some god?" murmured the
polytheistic Romans--and shrank from the mystery which surrounded the
silent One.
The impression here was produced solely by Freyer's imposing calmness
and unearthly eyes. The glance he cast at Herod when the latter ordered
him to perform a miracle--darken the judgment chamber or transform a
roll of papyrus into a serpent--that one glance, full of dignity and
gentleness, fixed upon the poor, short-sighted child of the dust was a
greater miracle than all the conjuring tricks of the Egyptian
Magicians.
But this very silence, this superiority, filled the priest with furious
rage and hastened His doom, which He disdained to stay by a single
word.
True, Pilate strove to save Him. The humane Roman, with his
aristocratic bearing, as Thomas Rendner personated him with masterly
skill, formed a striking contrast to the gloomy, fanatical priests, but
he was not the man for violent measures, and the furious leaders
understood how to present this alternative. The desire to conciliate,
the refuge of all weak souls which shrink in terror from catastrophes,
had already wrested from him a shameful concession--he had suffered the
Innocent One to be delivered to the scourge.
With clenched teeth the spectators beheld the chaste form, bound to the
stake and stained with blood, quiver beneath the lashes of the
executioner, without a murmur of complaint from the silent lips. And
when He had "had enough," as they phrased it, they placed him on a
chair, threw a royal mantle about Him, and placed a sceptre of reeds in
the hand of the mock-king. But He remained mute. The tormentors grew
more and more enraged--they wanted to have satisfaction, to gloat over
the moans of the victim--they dealt Him a blow in the face, then a
second one. Christ did not move. They thrust Him from the chair so that
He fell on the ground--no one ever forgot the beautiful, pathetic
figure--but He was still silent! Then one of the executioners brought a
crow
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