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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

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE CROSS:
A ROMANCE OF THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU ***

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"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 mediæval 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 Phœnix 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 Cäus, 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, archæology 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 Müller, 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
rôles 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, chère 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.

"Doré 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 Doré'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 Doré, 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 æsthetic 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. Génois, 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.
Génois, 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. Génois 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. Génois.

"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 Klüber 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.
Génois.

"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. Génois, 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
æsthetic 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 tête-à-tête!" 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 après
soirée? 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, chère amie. You, the scholar, superior to us all in
learning; you, the disciple of Schopenhauer, the proud philosopher, the
believer in Nirvâna."

"Yes, I, Prince!" cried the countess, "The philosopher who was not
happy for an hour, not content for a moment. What is this Nirvâna? A stone
idol, which the fruitless speculation of our times has conjured from the
rubbish of archæological 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 Nirvâna, 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 Antæus 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 æsthetic 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 crown made of huge thorns; He was raised again
and the martyr's diadem was placed upon His brow. The sharp thorns
resisted, they would not fit the noble head, so His tormentors took two
sticks laid cross-ways, and with them forced the spiked coronals so low on
His forehead that drops of blood flowed! Christ quivered under the keen
agony--but--He was silent! Then He was dragged out of His blood, a
spectacle to the populace.

Again Helios above gave the rein to his radiant coursers--he thought of
all the horrors in the history of his divine House, of the Danaides, of the
chained Prometheus, and of others also, but he could recall nothing
comparable to this, and loathed the human race! Averting his face, he
guided his weary steeds slowly downward from the zenith.

The evening breeze blew chill upon the scene of agony.

A furious tumult filled the streets of Jerusalem. The priests were leading
the raging mob to the governor's house--fanning their wrath to flame with
word and gesture. Caiaphas, Nathanael, the fanatics of Judaism--Annas and
Ezekiel, each at the head of a mob, rushed from three streets in an
overwhelming concourse. The populace surged like the angry sea, and
unchaining yet dominating the elements with word and glance the lofty
figure of Caiaphas, the high priest, towered in their midst.

"Shake it off! Cast from you the yoke of the tempter!"

"He has scorned Moses and the prophets--He has blasphemed God--to
the cross with the false Messiah!"

"May a curse rest on every one who does not vote for his death--let him
be cut off from the hereditary rights of our fathers!"

Thus the four leaders cast their watchword like firebrands among the
throngs, and the blaze spread tumultuously.

"The Nazarene must die--we demand judgment," roared the people. New
bands constantly flocked in. "Oh, fairest day of Israel! Children, be
resolute! Threaten a general insurrection. The governor wished to hear the
voice of the people--let him hear it!" shrieked Caiaphas, and his passion
stirred the mob to fiercer fury. All pressed forward to the house of Pilate.
The doors opened and the governor came out. The handsome, classic
countenance of the Roman expressed deep contempt, as he surveyed the
frantic mob. Behind him appeared the embodiment of sorrow--the picture of
all pictures--the Ecce Homo--which all the artists of the world have striven
to represent, yet never exhausted the subject. Here it stood personified--
before the eyes of men, and even the governor's voice trembled as he
pointed to it.

"Behold, what a man!"

"Crucify him!" was the answer.

Pilate endeavored to give the fury of the mob another victim: the
criminal Barabbas was brought forth and confronted with Christ. The basest
of human beings and the noblest! But the spectacle did not move them, for
the patience and serenity of the Martyr expressed a grandeur which shamed
them all, and this was the intolerable offense! The sight of the scourged,
bleeding body did not cool their vengeance because they saw that the spirit
was unbroken! It must be quelled, that it might not rise in judgment against
them, for they had gone too far, the ill-treated victim was a reproach to
them--he could not be suffered to live longer.

"Release Barabbas! To death with the Nazarene, crucify him!"

Vainly the governor strove to persuade the people. The cool, circumspect
man was too weak to defy these powers of hatred--he would fain save
Christ, yet was unwilling to drive the fanatics to extremes. So he yielded,
but the grief with which he did so, "to avert a greater misfortune," absolved
him from the terrible guilt whose curse he cast upon the leaders' head.

The expression with which he pronounced the sentence, uttered the
words: "Then take ye Him and crucify Him!" voices the grief of the man of
culture for eternal beauty.

The bloodthirsty mob burst into a yell of exultation when their victim
was delivered to them--now they could cool their vengeance on Him! "To
Golgotha--hence with him to the place of skulls!"

Christ--and Thy sacrifice is for these. Alas, the day will come, though
perchance not for thousands of years, when Thou wilt perceive that they
were not worthy of it. But that will be the day of judgment!

A crowd surged though the streets of Jerusalem--in their midst the
condemned man, burdened with the instrument of his own martyrdom.

In one corner amid the populace stood Mary, surrounded by a group of
friends, and the mother beheld her son urged forward, like a beast which,
when it falls, is forced up with lashes and pressed on till it sinks lifeless.

High above in the vaulted heavens, veiled by the gathering dude of
evening, the gods whispered to one another with secret horror as they
watched the unprecedented sight. Often as they might behold it, they could
never believe it.

The procession stopped before a house--Christ sank to the earth.

A man came out and thrust Him from the threshold.

"Hence, there is no place here for you to rest."

Ahasuerus! The tortured sufferer looked at him with the gaze of a dying
deer--a single mute glance of agony, but the man on whom it fell nevermore
found peace on earth, but was driven from every resting-place, from land to
land, from one spot to another--hunted on ceaselessly through the centuries-
-wandering forever.

"He will die on the road"--cried the first executioner, Christ had dragged
Himself a few steps forward, and fell for the second time.

"Drive him on with blows!" shrieked the Pharisees and the people.

"Oh! where is the sorrow like unto my sorrow?" moaned Mary, covering
her face.

"He is too weak, some one must help him," said the executioner. He
could not be permitted to die there--the people must see Him on the pillory.

His face was covered with sweat and blood--tears flowed from His eyes,
but the mute lips uttered no word of complaint. Then His friends ventured
to go and render whatever aid was permitted. Veronica offered Him her
handkerchief to wipe His face, and when He returned it, it bore in lines of
sweat and blood, the portrait which, throughout the ages, has exerted the
silent magic of suffering in legend and in art.

Simon of Cyrene took the cross from the sinking form to bear it for Him
to Golgotha, and the women of Jerusalem wept. Christ was standing by the

roadside exhausted, but when He saw the women with their children, the
last words of sorrow for their lost ones rose from His heart to His lips:

"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and
your children."

"For, behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say: Blessed
are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never
gave suck!"

"Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us; and to the
hills. Cover us."

"For if they do these things in a green tree, what shall be done in the
dry?"

"Drive the women away! Spare him no longer--hence to the place of
execution!" the priests commanded.

"To Golgotha--Crucify him!" roared the people. The women were driven
away; another message from the governor was unheeded, the procession
moved steadily on to death.

But Mary did not leave Him. With the few faithful friends she joined her
son's march of suffering, for the steadfastness of maternal love was as great
as her anguish.

There was a whispering and a murmuring in the air as if the Valkyries
and the gods of Greece were consulting whether they should aid the Son of
Man. But they were powerless; the sphere of the Christian's god was closed
against them.

The scene changed. The chorus, robed in sable mourning cloaks,
appeared and began the dirge for the dying God. The simple chant recalled
an ancient Anglo-Saxon song of the cross, composed in the seventh century
by the skald Caedmon, and which for more than a thousand years lay buried
in the mysterious spell of the rune.

[4]Methought I saw a Tree in mid-air hang
Of trees the brightest--mantling o'er with light-streaks;
A beacon stood it, glittering with gold.

All the angels beheld it,
Angel hosts in beauty created.
Yet stood it not a pillory of shame.
Thither turned the gaze
Of spirits blessed,
And of earthly pilgrims
Of noblest nature.
This tree of victory
Saw I, the sin-laden one.

Yet 'mid the golden glitter
Were traces of honor.
Adown the right side
Red drops were trickling.
Startled and shuddering
Noted I the hovering vision
Suddenly change its hue.

Long lay I pondering
Gazing full sadly
At the Saviour's Rood.
When lo, on my ear
Fell the murmur of speech;
These are the words
The forest uttered:

"Many a year ago,
Yet still my mind holds it,
Low was I felled.
The dim forest within
Hacked from my roots,
Haled on by rude woodmen
Bracing sinewy shoulders
Up the steep mountain side,
Till aloft on the summit
Firmly they fastened me.

"I spied the Frey[5] of man with eager haste
Approach to mount me; neither bend nor break
I durst, for so it was decreed above
Though earth about me shook.

"Up-girded him then the young hero,
That was God Almighty,
Strong and steady of mood,
Stept he on the high gallows:

Fearless amongst many beholders
For he would save mankind.
Trembled I when that 'beorn' climbed me,
But I durst not bow to earth."

There hung the Lord of Hosts
Swart clouds veiled the corpse,
The sun's light vanished
'Neath shadows murk.
While in silence drear
All creation wept
The fall of their king.
Christ was on Rood--
Thither from afar
Men came hastening
To aid the noble one.

Everything I saw,
Sorely was I
With sorrows harrowed,
Yet humbly I inclined
To the hands of his servants
Striving much to aid them.

Now from the Rood
The mighty God,
Spear-pierced and blood-besprent,
Gently men lowered;
They laid him down limb-weary,
They stood at the lifeless head,
Gazing at Heaven's Lord,
And he there rests awhile,
Weary after his mickle death-fight.

Such was the paean of Caedmon, mighty among the writers of runes, in
the seventh century after the Saviour's death. Now, twelve centuries later, it
lived again, and the terrible event was once more enacted, just as the skald
had sung, just as it happened nearly two thousand years ago.

What is space, what is time to aught that is rooted in love?

The dirge of the chorus had died away. A strange sound behind the
curtain accompanied the last verses--the sound of hammering--could it be?
No, it would be too horrible. The audience heard, yet would not hear. A
deathlike stillness pervaded the theatre--the blows of the hammer became
more and more distinct--the curtain rolled upward--there He lay with His

feet toward the spectators, flat upon the cross. And the executioners, with
heavy blows, drove nails through His limbs; they pierced the kind hands
which had never done harm to any living creature, but wherever they were
gently laid, healed all wounds and stilled all griefs; the feet which had
borne the divine form so lightly that it seemed to float over the burning
sand of the land and the surging waves of the sea, always on a mission of
love. Now He lay in suffering on the ground, stretched upon the accursed
timbers--half benumbed, like a stricken stag. At the right and left stood the
lower crosses of the two criminals. These men merely had their arms
thrown over the cross-beams and tied with ropes, only the feet were
fastened with nails. Christ alone was nailed by both hands and feet, because
the Pharisees were tortured by a foreboding that He could not be wholly
killed. Had they dared, they would have torn Him to pieces, and scattered
the fragments to the four winds, in order to be sure that He would not rise
on the third day, as He had predicted.

The executioners had completed the binding of the thieves. "Now the
King of the Jews must be raised."

"Lift the cross! Take hold!" the captain commanded. The spectators held
their breath, every heart stood still! The four executioners grasped it with
their brawny arms. "Up! Don't let go!"

The cross is ponderous, the men pant, bracing their shoulders against it--
their veins swell--another jerk--it sways--"Hold firm! Once more--put forth
your strength!" and in a wide sweep it moved upward--all cowered back
shuddering at the horrible spectacle.

"It is not, It cannot be!" Yet it is, it can be! Horror thrilled the spectators,
their limbs trembled. One grasped another, as if to hold themselves from
falling. It was rising, the cross was rising above the world! Higher--nearer!
"Brace against it--don't let go!"

It stood erect and was firm.

There hung the divine figure of sorrow, pallid and wan. The nails were
driven through the bleeding hands and feet--and the eye which would fain
deny was forced to witness it, the heart that would have prevented, was

compelled to bear it. But the scene could be endured no longer, the grief
restrained with so much difficulty found vent in loud sobs, and the hands
trembling with a feverish chill were clasped with the same feeling of
adoring love. Unspeakable compassion was poured forth in ceaseless floods
of tears, and rose gathering in a cloud of pensive melancholy around the
head of the Crucified One to soothe His mortal anguish. By degrees their
eyes became accustomed to the scene and gained strength to gaze at it.
Divine grace pervaded the slender body, and--as eternal beauty reconciles
Heaven and hell and transfigures the most terrible things--horror gradually
merged into devout admiration of the perfect human beauty revealed in
chaste repose and majesty before their delighted gaze. The countess had
clasped her hands over her breast. The world lay beneath her as if she was
floating above with Him on the cross. She no longer knew whether he was a
man or Christ Himself--she only knew that the universe contained nothing
save that form.

Her eyes were fixed upon the superhuman vision, tear after tear trickled
down her cheeks. The prince gazed anxiously at her, but she did not notice
it--she was entranced. If she could but die now--die at the foot of the cross,
let her soul exhale like a cloud of incense, upward to Him.

Darkness was gathering. The murmuring and whispering in the air drew
nearer--was it the Valkyries, gathering mournfully around the hero who
scorned the aid. Was it the wings of the angel of death? Or was it a flock of
the sacred birds which, legend relates, strove to draw out the nails that
fastened the Saviour to the cross until their weak bills were crooked and
they received the name of "cross-bills."

The sufferer above was calm and silent. Only His lambent eyes spoke,
spoke to those invisible powers hovering around Him in the final hour.

Beneath His cross the soldiers were casting lots for His garments--the
priests were exulting--the brute cynicism was watching with wolfish greed
for the victim to fall into its clutches, while shouting with jeering mocking:
If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross!

He trusted in God; let Him deliver Him now, if He will have Him!--

"Thou that destroyest the temple and buildest it in three days, save
thyself. Show thy power, proud King of the Jews!"

The tortured sufferer painfully turned His head.

"Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.--"

Then one of the malefactors, even in his own death agony, almost
mocked Him, but the other rebuked him; "We receive the due reward of our
deeds: but this man hath done nothing amiss!" Then he added beseechingly:
"Lord, remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom."

Christ made the noble answer: "Verily I say unto thee, to-day shalt thou
be with me in paradise."

There was a fresh roar of mockery from the Pharisees. "He cannot save
himself, yet promises the kingdom of heaven to others."

But the Saviour no longer heard, His senses were failing; He bent His
head toward Mary and John. "Woman, behold thy son! Son, behold thy
mother!"

The signs of approaching death appeared. He grew restless--struggled for
breath, His tongue clung to His palate.

"I thirst."

The sponge dipped in vinegar was handed to him on a long spear.

He sipped but was not refreshed. The agony had reached its climax:
"Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?" He cried from the depths of His breaking
heart, a wonderful waving motion ran through the noble form in the last
throes of death. Then, with a long sigh, He murmured in the tones of an
Æolian harp: "It is finished! Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit!"
gently bowed his head and expired.

A crashing reverberation shook the earth. Helios' chariot rolled
thundering into the sea. The gods fled, overwhelmed and scattered by the
hurrying hosts of heaven. Dust whirled upward from the ground and smoke

from the chasms, darkening the air. The graves opened and sent forth their
inmates. In the mighty anguish of love, the Father rends the earth as He
snatches from it the victim He has too long left to pitiless torture! The false
temple was shattered, the veil rent--and amid the flames of Heaven the
Father's heart goes forth to meet the maltreated, patient, obedient Son.

"Come, thou poor martyr!" echoed yearningly through the heavens.
"Come, thou poor martyr!" repeated every spectator below.

Yet they were still compelled to see the beloved body pierced with a
sharp lance till the hot blood gushed forth--and it seemed as if the thrust
entered the heart of the entire world! They were still forced to hear the
howling of the wolves disputing over the sacred corpse--but at last the
tortured soul was permitted to rest.

The governor's hand had protected the lifeless body and delivered it to
His followers.

The multitude dispersed, awe-stricken by the terrible portents--the
priests, pale with terror, fled to their shattered temple. Golgotha became
empty. The jeers and reviling had died away, the tumult in nature had
subsided--and the sacred stillness of evening brooded over those who
remained. "He has fulfilled His task--He has entered into the rest of the
Father." The drops of blood fell noiselessly from the Redeemer's heart upon
the sand. Nothing was heard save the low sobbing of the women at the foot
of the cross.

Then pitying love approached, and never has a pæan of loyalty been
sung like that which the next hour brought. The first blades were now
appearing of that love whose seed has spread throughout the world!

Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus came with ladders and tools to take
down the body.

Ascending, they wound about the lifeless form long bands of white
linen, whose ends they flung down from the cross. These were grasped by
the friends below as a counterpoise to lower it gently down. Joseph and

Nicodemus now began to draw out the nails with pincers; the cracking and
splintering of the wood was heard, so firm was the iron.

Mary sat on a stone, waiting resignedly, with clasped hands, for her son.
"Noble men, bring me my child's body soon!" she pleaded softly.

The women spread a winding sheet at her feet to receive it.

At last the nails were drawn out and--

"Now from the rood
The mighty God
Men gently lowered."

Cautiously one friend laid the loosened, rigid arms of the dead form
upon the other's shoulders, that they might not fall suddenly, Joseph of
Arimathea clasped the body: "Sweet, sacred burden, rest upon my
shoulders."

He descended the ladder with it. Half carried, half lowered in the bands,
the lifeless figure slides to the foot of the instrument of martyrdom.

Nicodemus extended his arms to him: "Come, sacred corpse of my only
friend, let me receive you."

They bore Him to Mary--

"They laid Him down limb-weary
They stood at the lifeless head."

that the son might rest once more in the mother's lap.

She clasped in her arms the wounded body of the son born in anguish the
second time.

Magdalene knelt beside it. "Let me kiss once more the hand which has
so often blessed me." And with chaste fervor the Penitent's lips touched the
cold, pierced hand of the corpse.

Another woman flung herself upon Him. "Dearest Master, one more tear
upon Thy lifeless body!" And the sobbing whisper of love sounded sweet
and soothing like vesper-bells after a furious storm.

But the men stood devoutly silent:

"Gazing at Heaven's Lord,
And He there rests awhile
Weary after his mickle death-fight."

CHAPTER VIII.
FREYER

The Play was over. "Christ is risen!" He had burst the sepulchre and
hurled the guards in the dust by the sight of His radiant apparition. He had
appeared to the Penitent as a simple gardener "early in the morning," as He
had promised, and at last had been transfigured and had risen above the
world, bearing in His hand the standard of victory.

The flood of human beings poured out of the close theatre into the open
air. Not loudly and noisily, as they had come--no, reverently and gravely, as
a funeral train disperses after the obsequies of some noble man; noiselessly
as the ebbing tide recedes after flood raised by a storm. These were the
same people, yet they returned in a far different mood.

The same vehicles in which yesterday the travelers had arrived in so
noisy a fashion, now bore them away, but neither shouts nor cracking of
whips was heard--the drivers knew that they must behave as if their
carriages were filled with wounded men.

And this was true. There was scarcely one who did not suffer as if the
spear which had pierced the Saviour's heart had entered his own, who did
not feel the wounds of the Crucified One in his own hands and feet! The
grief which the people took with them was grand and godlike, and they
treasured it carefully, they did not desire to lose any portion of it, for--we
love the grief we feel for one beloved--and to-day they had learned to love
Christ.

So they went homeward.

The last carriages which drew up before the entrance were those of the
countess and her friends. The gentlemen of the diplomatic corps were
already standing below, waiting for Countess Wildenau to assign them their
seats in the two landaus. But the lady was still leaning against the pillar

which supported one end of the box. Pressing her handkerchief to her eyes,
she vainly strove to control her tears. Her heart throbbed violently, her
breath was short and quick--she could not master her emotion.

The prince stood before her, pale and silent, his eyes, too, were reddened
by weeping.

"Try to calm yourself!" he said firmly. "The ladies are still in their box,
the duchess seems to expect you to go to her. A woman of the world, like
yourself, should not give way so."

"Give way, do you call it?" repeated Madeleine, who did not see that
Prince Emil, too, was moved. "We shall never understand each other."

At this moment the ladies left their box and crossed the intervening
space. They were the last persons in the theatre. The duchess, without a
word, threw her arms around Countess von Wildenau's neck. Her ladies-in-
waiting, too, approached with tearful eyes, and when the duchess at last
released her friend from her embrace, the baroness whispered: "Forgive me,
I have wronged you as well as many others--even yesterday, forgive me."
The same entreaty was expressed in Her Excellency's glance and clasp of
the hand as she said: "Whoever sees this must repent every unloving word
ever uttered; we will never forget that we have witnessed it together."

"I thank you, but I should have borne you no ill will, even had I known
what you have now voluntarily confessed to me!" replied the countess,
kissing the ladies with dry, burning lips.

"Shall we go?" asked the duchess. "We shall be locked in."

"I will come directly--I beg you--will your Highness kindly go first? I
should like to rest a moment!" stammered the countess in great confusion.

"You are terribly unstrung--that is natural--so are we all. I will wait for
you below and take you in my carriage, if you wish. We can weep our fill
together."

"Your Highness is--very kind," replied the countess, scarcely knowing
what she answered.

When the party had gone down stairs, she passionately seized Prince
Emil's arm: "For Heaven's sake, help me to escape going with them. I will
not, cannot leave. I beseech you by all that is sacred, let me stay here."

"So it is settled! The result is what I feared," said the prince with a heavy
sigh. "I can only beg you for your own sake to consider the ladies. You have
invited them to dine day after to-morrow--"

"I know it--apologize for me--say whatever you please--you will know--
you can manage it--if you have ever loved me--help me! Drive with the
ladies--entertain them, that they may not miss me!"

"And the magnificent ovation which the gentlemen have arranged at
your home?"

"What do I care for it?"

"A fairy temple awaits you at the Palace Wildenau, and you will stay
here? What a pity to lose the beautiful flowers, which must now wither in
vain."

"I cannot help it. For Heaven's sake, act quickly--some one is coming!"
She was trembling in every limb with fear--but it was no member of the
party sent to summon her. A short man with clear cut features stood beside
her, shrewd loyal eyes met her glance. "I saw that you were still here,
Countess, can I serve you in any way?"

"Thank Heaven, it is Ludwig Gross!" cried the excited woman joyously,
taking his arm. "Can you get me to your father's house without being seen?"

"Certainly, I can guide you across the stage, if you wish!"

"Quick, then! Farewell, Prince--be generous and forgive me!"

She vanished.

The prince was too thoroughly a man of the world to betray his feelings
even for an instant. The short distance down the staircase afforded him
ample time to decide upon his course. The misfortune had happened, and
could no longer be averted--but it concerned himself alone. Her name and
position must be guarded.

"Have you come without the countess?" called the duchess.

"I must apologize for her, Your Highness. The performance has so
completely unstrung her nerves that she is unable to travel to-day. I have
just placed her in her landlord's charge promising not only to make her
apologies to the ladies, but also endeavor to supply her place."

"Oh, poor Countess Wildenau!" said the duchess, kindly. "Shall we not
go to her assistance?"

"Permit me to remind your Highness that we have not a moment to lose,
if we wish to catch the train!"

"Is it possible! Then we must hurry."

"Yes--and I think rest will be best for the countess at present," answered
Prince Emil, helping the ladies into the carriage.

"Well, we shall see her at dinner on Tuesday? She will be able to travel
to-morrow?"

"Oh, I hope so."

"But, Prince Emil! What will become of our flowers?" asked the
gentlemen.

"Oh, they will keep until to-morrow!"

"I suppose she has no suspicion?"

"Of course not, and it is far better, for had she been aware of it, no doubt
she would have gone to-day, in spite of her illness, and made herself
worse."

The gentlemen assented. "Still it's a pity about the flowers. If they will
only keep fresh!"

"She will let many a blossom wither, which may well be mourned!"
thought the prince bitterly.

"Will you drive with us, Prince?" asked the duchess.

"If Your Highness will permit! Will you go to the Casino to-night, as we
agreed, gentlemen?" he called as he entered the vehicle.

"Not I," replied Prince Hohenheim. "I honestly confess that I am not in
the mood."

"Nor I," said St. Génois. "This has moved me to that--the finest circus in
the world might be here and I would not enter! The burgomaster of
Ammergau was right in permitting nothing of the kind."

"Yes, I will take back everything I said yesterday; I went to laugh and
wept," remarked Wengenrode.

"It has robbed me of all desire for amusement," Cossigny added. "I care
for nothing more to-day."

They bowed to the ladies and the prince, and silently entered their
carriages. Prince Emil ordered the countess' coachman to drive back with
the maid, who sat hidden in one corner, and joined the duchess and her
companions.

The equipages rolled away in different directions--one back to the Gross
house, the other to Munich, where the florists were toiling busily to adorn
the Wildenau Palace for the reception of its fortunate owner, who was not
coming.

Ludwig Gross led the countess across the now empty stage. It thrilled
her with a strange emotion to thread its floor, and in her reverent awe, she
scarcely ventured to glance around her at the vast, dusky space. Suddenly
she recoiled from an unexpected horror--the cross lay before her. Her

agitation did not escape the keen perception of Ludwig Gross, and he
doubtless understood it; such things are not new to the people of
Ammergau. "I will see whether the house of Pilate is still open, perhaps you
may like to step out on the balcony!" he said, and moved away to leave her
alone.

The countess understood the consideration displayed by the
sympathizing man. Kneeling in the dark wings, she threw herself face
downward on the cross, pressed her burning lips on the hard wood which
had supported the noble body, on the marks left here also by the nails which
had apparently pierced the hands of the crucified one, the red stains made
by his painted wounds. Aye, it had become true, the miracle had happened.
The artificial blood also possessed redeeming power.

Rarely did any pilgrim to the Holy Land ever press a more fervent kiss
upon the wood of the true cross, than was now bestowed on the false one.

So, in the days of yore, Helen, the beautiful, haughty mother of the
Emperor Constantine, may have flung herself down, after her long sea
voyage, when she at last found the long sought cross to press it to her
bosom in the unutterable joy of realization.

Ludwig's steps approached, and the countess roused herself from her
rapture.

"Unfortunately the house is closed," said Ludwig, who had probably
been perfectly aware of it. They went on to the dressing-rooms. "I'll see if
Freyer is still here!" and the drawing-master knocked at the first door. The
countess was so much startled that she was forced to lean against the wall to
save herself from falling. Was it to come now--the fateful moment! Her
knees threatened to give way, her heart throbbed almost to bursting--but
there was no answer to the knock, thrice repeated. He was no longer there.
Ludwig Gross opened the door, the room was empty. "Will you come in?"
he asked. "Would it interest you to see the dressing-room?"

She entered. There hang his garments, still damp with perspiration from
the severe toil.

Madeleine von Wildenau stooped with clasped hands in the bare little
chamber. Something white and glimmering rustled and floated beside her--it
was the transfiguration robe. She touched it lightly with her hand in
passing, and a thrill of bliss ran through every nerve.

Ah, and there was the crown of thorns.

She took it in her hand and tears streamed down upon it, as though it
were some sacred relic. Again the dream-like vision stood before her as she
had seen it for the first time on the mountain top with the thorny branches
swaying around the brow like an omen. "No, my hands shall defend thee
that no thorn shall henceforth tear thee, beloved brow!" she thought, while a
strange smile irradiated her face. Then looking up, she met the eyes of
Ludwig, fixed upon her with deep emotion as she gazed down at the crown
of thorns.

She replaced it and followed him to the door of the next room. Caiaphas!
An almost childlike dread and timidity assailed her--the sort of feeling she
had had when a young girl at the time of her first presentation at court--she
was well-nigh glad that he was no longer there and she had time to calm
herself ere she confronted the mighty priest.

"It is too late, they have all gone!" said Ludwig, offering his companion
his arm to lead her down the staircase.

Numerous groups of people were standing in front of the theatre and in
the street leading to the village.

"What are they doing here?" asked the lady.

"Oh, they are waiting for Freyer! It is always so. He has slipped around
again by a side path to avoid seeing anyone, and the poor people must stand
and wait in vain. I have often told him that he ought not to be so austere! It
would please them so much if he would but give them one friendly word--
but he cannot conquer this shyness. He cannot suffer himself to be revered
as the Christ, after the Play is over. He ought not to permit the feeling which
the people have for the Christ to be transferred to his person--that is his
view of the matter."

"It is a lofty and noble thought, but hard for us poor mortals, who so
eagerly cling to what is visible. It is impossible not to transfer the
impression produced by the character to its representative, especially with a
personality like Freyer's!"

Ludwig Gross nodded assent. "Yes, we have had this experience of old.
Faith needs an earthly pledge, says our great poet, and Freyer's personation
is such a pledge, a guarantee of whose blessed power everyone feels sure."

The countess eagerly pressed Ludwig's hands.

"I have seen people," Ludwig added, "who were happy, if they were only
permitted to touch Freyer's garment, as though it could bring them healing
like the actual robe of Christ! Would not Christ, also, if He beheld this pious
delusion, exclaim: 'Woman, thy faith hath saved thee!'"

A deep flush crimsoned the countess' face, and the tears which she had
so long struggled to repress flowed in streams. She leaned heavily on
Ludwig's arm, and he felt the violent throbbing of her heart. It touched him
and awakened his compassion. He perceived that hers, too, was a suffering
soul seeking salvation here, and if she did not find it, would perish. "It shall
be yours, poor woman; for rich as you may be, you are still poor--and we
will give you what we can!" he thought.

The two companions pursued their way, without exchanging another
word. The countess now greeted the old house like a lost home which she
had once more regained.

Andreas Gross met her at the door, took off her shawl, and carried it into
the room for her.

Josepha had already returned and said that the countess was ill.

"I hope it is nothing serious?" he asked anxiously.

"No, Herr Gross, I am well--but I cannot go; I must make the
acquaintance of these people--I cannot tear myself away from this
impression!"

She sank into a chair, laid her head on the table and sobbed like a child.
"Forgive me, Herr Gross, I cannot help it!" she said with difficulty, amid
her tears.

The old man laid his hand upon her shoulder with a gesture of paternal
kindness. "Weep your fill, we are accustomed to it, do not heed us!" He
drew her gently into the sitting-room.

Ludwig had vanished.

Josepha entered to ask whether she should unpack the luggage which
was up in her room.

"Yes," replied the countess, "and let the carriages return to Munich, until
I need them again."

"His Highness the Prince has left his valet here for your service,"
Josepha reported.

"What can he do? Let him go home, too! Let them all go--I want no one
except you!" said the countess sternly, hiding her face again in her
handkerchief. Josepha went out to give the order. Where could Ludwig
Gross be?--He had become a necessity to her now, thus left alone with her
overflowing heart! He had been right in everything.--He had told her that
she would learn to weep here, he had first made her understand the spirit of
Ammergau. Honor and gratitude were his due, he had promised nothing that
had not been fulfilled. He was thoroughly genuine and reliable! But where
had he gone, did not this man, usually so sympathetic, know that just now
he might be of great help to her? Or did he look deeper still, and know that
he was but a substitute for another, for whom her whole soul yearned? It
was so lonely. A death-like stillness reigned in the house and in the street.
All were resting after the heavy toil of the day.

Something outside darkened the window. Ludwig Gross was passing on
his way toward the door, bringing with him a tan, dark figure, towering far
above the low window, a figure that moved shyly, swiftly along, followed
by a throng of people, at a respectful distance. The countess felt paralyzed.
Was he coming? Was he coming in.

She could not rise and look--she sat with clasped hands, trembling in
humble expectation, as Danae waited the moment when the shower of gold
should fall. Then--steps echoed in the workshop--the footsteps of two--!
They were an eternity in passing down its length--but they were really
approaching her room--they came nearer--some one knocked! She scarcely
had breath to call "come in." She would not believe it--from the fear of
disappointment. She still sat motionless at the table--Ludwig Gross opened
the door to allow the other to precede him--and Freyer entered. He stooped
slightly, that he might not strike his head, but that was needless, for--what
miracle was this? The door expanded before the countess' eyes, the ceiling
rose higher and higher above him. A wide lofty space filled with dazzling
light surrounded him. Colors glittered before her vision, figures floated to
and fro; were they shadows or angels? She knew not, a mist veiled her eyes-
-for a moment she ceased to think. Then she felt as if she had awaked from
a deep slumber, during which she had been walking in her sleep--for she
suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer, he was holding her hands
in his, while his eyes rested on hers--in speechless silence.

She suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer.

Then she regained her self-control and the first words she uttered were
addressed to Ludwig: "You have brought him--!" she said, releasing Freyer's
hands to thank the man who had so wonderfully guessed her yearning.

Gift and gratitude were equal--and here both were measureless! She
scarcely knew at this moment which she valued more, the man who brought

this donation or the gift itself. But from this hour Ludwig Gross was her
benefactor.

"You have brought him"--she repeated, for she knew not what more to
say--that one word contained all! Had she possessed the eloquence of the
universe, it would not have been so much to Ludwig as that one word and
the look which accompanied it. Then, like a child at Christmas, which, after
having expressed its thanks, goes back happily to its presents, she turned
again to Freyer.

Yet, as the child stands timidly before the abundance of its gifts, and, in
the first moments of surprise, does not venture to touch them, she now
stood, shy and silent before him, her only language her eyes and the tears
which streamed down her cheeks.

Freyer saw her deep emotion and, bending kindly toward her, again took
her hands in his. Every nerve was still quivering--she could feel it--from the
terrible exertion he had undergone--and as the moisture drips from the trees
after the rain, his eyes still swam in tears, and his face was damp with
perspiration.

"How shall I thank you for coming to me after this day of toil?" she
began in a low tone.

She suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer.]

"Oh, Countess," he answered with untroubled truthfulness, "I did it for
the sake of my friend Ludwig--he insisted upon it."

"So it was only on his friend's account," thought the countess, standing
with bowed head before him.

He was now the king--and she, the queen of her brilliant sphere, was
nothing save a poor, hoping, fearing woman!

At this moment all the vanity of her worldly splendor fell from her--for
the first time in her life she stood in the presence of a man where she was
the supplicant, he the benefactor. What a feeling! At once humiliating and
blissful, confusing and enthralling! She had recognized by that one sentence
the real state of the case--what to this man was the halo surrounding the
Reichscountess von Wildenau with her coronet and her millions? Joseph
Freyer knew but one aristocracy--that of the saints in whose sphere he was
accustomed to move--and if he left it for the sake of an earthly woman, he
would stoop to her, no matter how far, according to worldly ideals, she
might stand above him!

Yet poor and insignificant as she felt in his presence--while the lustre of
her coronet and the glitter of her gold paled and vanished in the misty
distance--one thing remained on which she could rely, her womanly charm,
and this must wield its influence were she a queen or the child of a wood-
cutter! "Then, for the earthly crown you have torn from my head, proud
man, you shall give me your crown of thorns, and I will still be queen!" she
thought, as the spirit of Mother Eve stirred within her and an intoxicating
breeze blew from the Garden of Paradise. Not for the sake of a base
emotion of vanity and covetousness, nay, she wished to be loved, in order to
bless. It is the nature of a noble woman to seek to use her power not to
receive, but to give, to give without stint or measure. The brain thinks
quickly--but the heart is swifter still! Ere the mind has time to grasp the
thought, the heart has seized it. The countess had experienced all this in the
brief space during which Freyer's eyes rested on her. Suddenly he lowered
his lashes and said in a whisper: "I think we have met before, countess."

"On my arrival Friday evening. You were standing on the top of the
mountain while I was driving at the foot. Was it not so?"

"Yes," he murmured almost inaudibly, and there was something like an
understanding, a sweet familiarity in the soft assent. She felt it, and her
hand clasped his more firmly with a gentle pressure.

He again raised his lashes, gazing at her with an earnest, questioning
glance, and it seemed as if she felt a pulse throbbing in the part of the hand
which bore the mark of the wound--the warning did not fail to produce its
effect.

"Christus, my Christus!" she whispered repentantly. It seemed as if she
had committed a sin in suffering an earthly wish to touch the envoy of God.
He was crucified, dead, and buried. He only walked on earth like a spirit
permitted to return from time to time and dwell for a brief space among the
living. Who could claim a spirit, clasp a shadow to the heart? Grief
oppressed her, melancholy, akin to the grief we feel when we dream of the
return of some beloved one who is dead, and throw ourselves sobbing on
his breast, while we are aware that it is only a dream! But even if but a
dream, should she not dream it with her whole soul? If she knew that he
was given to her only a few moments, should she not crowd into them with
all the sweeter, more sorrowful strength, the love of a whole life?

After us the deluge, says love to the moment--and that which does not
say it is not love.

But in this moment, the countess felt, lay the germ of something
imperishable, and when it was past there would begin for her--not
annihilation, but eternity. To it she must answer for what she did with the
moment!

Ludwig Gross was standing by the window, he did not wish to listen
what was communicated by the mute language of those eyes. He had
perceived, with subtle instinct, the existence of some mysterious
connection, in which no third person had any part. They were alone--
virtually alone, yet neither spoke, only their tearful eyes expressed the
suffering which he endured and she shared in beholding.

"Come, poor martyr!" cried her heart, and she released one of his hands
to clasp the other more closely with both her own. She noticed a slight
quiver. "Does your hand still ache--from the terrible nail which seemed to
be driven into your flesh?"

"Oh, no, that would cause no pain; the nail passes between the fingers
and the large head extends toward the center of the palm. But to-day, by
accident, Joseph of Arimathea in drawing out the nail took a piece of the
flesh with it, so that I clenched my teeth with the pain!" he said, smiling,
and showing her the wound. "Do you see? Now I am really stigmatized!"

"Good Heavens, there is a large piece of the flesh torn out, and you bore
it without wincing?"

"Why, of course!" he said, simply.

Ludwig gazed fixedly out of the window. The countess had gently drawn
the wounded hand nearer and nearer; suddenly forgetting everything in an
unutterable feeling, she stooped and ere Freyer could prevent it pressed a
kiss upon the bloody stigma.

Joseph Freyer shrank as though struck by a thunderbolt, drawing back
his hand and closing it as if against some costly gift which he dared not
accept. A deep flush crimsoned his brow, his broad chest heaved
passionately and he was obliged to cling to a chair, to save himself from
falling. Yet unconsciously his eyes flashed with a fire at once consuming
and life-bestowing--a Prometheus spark!

"You are weary, pardon me for not having asked you to sit down long
ago!" said the countess, making an effort to calm herself, and motioning to
Ludwig Gross, in order not to leave him standing alone.

"Only a moment"--whispered Freyer, also struggling to maintain his
composure, as he sank into a chair. Madeleine von Wildenau turned away,
to give him time to regain his self-command. She saw his intense emotion,
and might perhaps have been ashamed of her hasty act had she not known
its meaning--for her feeling at that moment was too sacred for him to have
misunderstood it. Nor had he failed to comprehend, but it had overpowered
him.

Ludwig, who dearly perceived the situation, interposed with his usual
tact to relieve their embarrassment: "Freyer is particularly exhausted to-day;

he told me, on our way here, that he had again been taken from the cross
senseless."

"Good Heavens, does that happen often?" asked the countess.

"Unfortunately, yes," said Ludwig in a troubled tone.

"It is terrible--your father told me that the long suspension on the cross
was dangerous. Can nothing be done to relieve it?"

"Something might be accomplished," replied Ludwig, "by substituting a
flat cross for the rounded one. Formerly, when we had a smooth, angular
one, it did not tax his strength so much! But some authority in archæology
told us that the crosses of those days were made of semi-circular logs, and
this curve, over which the back is now strained, stretches the limbs too
much."

"I should think so!" cried the countess in horror. "Why do you use such
an instrument of torture?"

"He himself insists upon it, for the sake of historical accuracy."

"But suppose you should not recover, from one of these fainting fits?"
asked the lady, reproachfully.

Then Freyer, conquering his agitation, raised his head. "What more
beautiful fate could be mine, Countess, than to die on the cross, like my
redeemer? It is all that I desire."

"All?" she repeated, and a keen emotion of jealousy assailed her,
jealousy of the cross, to which he would fain devote his life! She met his
dark eyes with a look, a sweet, yearning--fatal look--a poisoned arrow
whose effect she well knew. She grudged him to the cross, the dead,
wooden instrument of martyrdom, which did not feel, did not love, did not
long for him as she did! And the true Christ? Ah, He was too noble to
demand such a sacrifice--besides. He would receive too souls for one, for
surely, in His image, she loved Him. He had sent her the hand marked with

blood stains to show her the path to Him--He could not desire to withdraw
it, ere the road was traversed.

"You are a martyr in the true sense of the word," she said. Her eyes
seemed to ask whether the shaft had struck. But Freyer had lowered his lids
and sat gazing at the floor.

"Oh, Countess," he said evasively, "to have one's limbs wrenched for
half an hour does not make a martyr. That suffering brings honor and the
consciousness of serving others. Many, like my friend Ludwig, and other
natives of Ammergau, offer to our cause secret sacrifices of happiness
which no audience beholds and applauds, and which win no renown save in
their own eyes and God's. They are martyrs, Countess!--I am merely a vain,
spoiled, sinful man, who has enough to do to keep himself from being
dazzled by the applause of the world and to become worthy of his task."

"To become!" the countess repeated. "I think whoever speaks in that way,
is worthy already."

Freyer raised his eyes with a look which seemed to Madeleine von
Wildenau to lift her into a higher realm. "Who would venture to say that he
was worthy of this task? It requires a saint. All I can hope for is that God
will use the imperfect tool to work His miracles, and that He will accept my
will for the deed,--otherwise I should be forced to give up the part this very
day."

The countess was deeply moved.

"Oh, Freyer, wonderful, divinely gifted nature! To us you are the
Redeemer, and yet you are so severe to yourself."

"Do not talk so, Countess! I must not listen! I will not add to all my sins
that of robbing my Master, in His garb, of what belongs to Him alone. You
cannot suspect how it troubles me when people show me this reverence; I
always long to cry out, 'Do not confound me with Him--I am nothing more
than the wood--or the marble from which an image of the Christ is carved,
and withal bad wood, marble which is not free from stains.' And when they
will not believe it, and continue to transfer to me the love which they ought

to have for Christ--I feel that I am robbing my Master, and no one knows
how I suffer." He started up. "That is why I mingle so little with others--and
if I ever break this rule I repent it, for my peace of mind is destroyed."

He took his hat. His whole nature seemed changed--this was the chaste
severity with which he had driven the money changers from the temple, and
Madeleine turned pale--chilled to the inmost heart by his inflexible bearing.

"Are you going?" she murmured in a trembling voice.

"It is time," he answered, gently, but with an unapproachable dignity
which made the words with which she would fain have entreated him to
stay longer, die upon her lips.

"Your Highness win leave to morrow?"

"The countess intends to remain some time," said Ludwig, pressing his
friend's arm lightly, as a warning not to wound her feeling.

"Ah," replied Freyer, thoughtfully, "then perhaps we shall meet again."

"I have not yet answered what you have said to-day; will you permit me
to do so to-morrow?" asked the countess, gently; an expression of quiet
suffering hovered around her lips.

"To-morrow I play the Christ again, Countess--but doubtless some
opportunity will be found within the next few days."

"As you please--farewell!"

Freyer bowed respectfully, but as distantly as if he did not think it
possible that the lady would offer him her hand. Ludwig, on the contrary, as
if to make amends for his friend's omission, frankly extended his. She
clasped it, saying in a low, hurried tone: "Stay!"

"I will merely go with Freyer to the door, and then return, if you will
allow me."

"Yes," she said, dismissing Freyer with a haughty wave of the hand.
Then, throwing herself into the chair by the table, she burst into bitter
weeping. She had always been surrounded by men who sued for her favor
as though it were a royal gift. And here--here she was disdained, and by
whom? A man of the people--a plebeian! No, a keen pang pierced her heart
as she tried to give him that name. If he was a plebeian, so, too, was Christ.
Christ, too, sprang from the people--the ideal of the human race was born in
a manger! She could summon to confront Him only one kind of pride, that
of the woman, not of the high-born lady. Alas--she had not even this. How
often she had flung her heart away without love. For the mess of pottage of
gratified vanity or an interesting situation, as the prince had said yesterday,
she had bartered the birthright of the holiest feeling. Of what did she dare to
be proud? That, for the first time in her life, she really loved? Was she to
avenge herself by arrogance upon the man who had awakened this divine
emotion because he did not share it? No, that would be petty and ungrateful.
Yet what could she do? He was so far above her in his unassuming
simplicity, so utterly inviolable. She was captured by his nobility, her
weapons were powerless against him. As she gazed around her for some
support by which she might lift herself above him, every prop of her former
artificial life snapped in her grasp before the grand, colossal verity of this
apparition. She could do nothing save love and suffer, and accept whatever
fate he bestowed.

Some one knocked at the door; almost mechanically she gave the
permission to enter.

Ludwig Gross came in noiselessly and approached her. Without a word
she held out her hand, as a patient extends it to the physician. He stood by
her side and his eyes rested on the weeping woman with the sympathy and
understanding born of experience in suffering. But his presence was
infinitely soothing. This man would allow nothing to harm her! So far as his
power extended, she was safe.

She looked at him as if beseeching help--and he understood her.

"Freyer was unusually excited to-day," he said, "I do not know what was
passing in his mind. I never saw him in such a mood before! When we
entered the garden, he embraced me as if something extraordinary had

happened, and then rushed off as though the ground was burning under his
feet--of course in the direction opposite to his home, for the whole street
was full of people waiting to see him."

The countess held her breath to listen.

"Was he in this mood when you called for him?" she asked.

"No, he was as usual, calm and weary."

"What changed him so suddenly?"

"I believe, Countess, that you have made an impression upon him which
he desires to understand. You have thrown him out of the regular routine,
and he no longer comprehends his own feelings."

"But I--I said so little--I don't understand," cried the countess, blushing.

"The important point does not always depend on what is said, but on
what is not said, Countess. To deep souls what is unuttered is often more
significant than words."

Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes and silently clasped Ludwig's
hand.

"Do you think that he--" she did not finish the sentence, Ludwig spared
her.

"From my knowledge of Freyer--either he will never return, or--he will
come to-morrow."

CHAPTER IX.
SIGNS AND WONDERS

The great number of strangers who were unable to get tickets the day
before had rendered a second performance necessary. The countess did not
attend it. To her the play had been no spectacle, but an experience--a
repetition would have degraded it to a mere drama. She had spent the day in
retirement, like a prisoner, that she might not fall into the hands of any
acquaintances. Now the distant rumble of carriages announced the close of
the performance. It was a delightful autumn evening. The Gross family
came to the window on their return home, and wondered to find the
countess still in her room. The sounds of stifled sobs echoed from the work
room. The other lodgers in the house had come back from the theatre and,
like every one, were paying their tribute of tears. An American had gone to-
day for the second time. He sat weeping on the bench near the stove, and
said that it had been even more touching than yesterday. Andreas Gross
assented: "Yes, Joseph Freyer never played as he did to-day."

The countess, sitting in her room, heard the words and was strangely
moved. Why had he never played as he did to-day?

Some one tapped gently on the door.

A burning blush suffused the countess' face--had he--? He might have
passed through the garden from the other side to avoid the spectators.
"Come in!" she called.

It was Josepha with a telegram in her hand. The messenger was waiting
for an answer.

The countess opened it and read the contents. It was from the prince.
"Please inform me whether I shall countermand the dinner."

"Very well. I will send the reply."

Josepha withdrew.

"If Ludwig were only here!" thought the countess. "He must be waiting
to bring Freyer, as he did yesterday."

The rapid pulsing of her heart almost stifled her. One quarter of an hour
passed after another. At last Ludwig came--but alone.

The countess was sitting at the open window and Ludwig paused beside
it.

"Well, how was the play to-day?"

"Magnificent," he replied. "I never saw Freyer so superb. He was
perfect, fairly superhuman! It is a pity that you were not there."

"Did he inquire for me?"

"Yes. I explained to him that you did not wish to see it a second time--
and for what reason. He nodded and said: 'I am glad the lady feels so.'"

"Then--we understand each other!" The countess drew a long breath.
"Did you ask him to come here with you?"

"No. I thought I ought not to do that--he must come now of his own free
will, or you would be placed in a false position."

"You are right--I thank you!" said the countess, turning pale and biting
her lips. "Do you think that--he will come?"

"Unfortunately, no--he went directly home."

"Will you do me a favor?"

"Certainly, Countess."

"Despatch a telegram for me. I have arranged to give a dinner party at
home and should like to send a message that I am coming."

"You will not remain here longer?"

"No!" she said in a tone sharp and cutting as a knife which is thrust into
one's own heart. "Come in, please."

Ludwig obeyed the command and she wrote with the bearing of a queen
signing a death-warrant:

"Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim, Munich.

"Will come at five to-morrow. Dinner can be given.

"Madeleine."

"Here, if you will be so kind," she said, handing the sheet to Ludwig.

The latter gazed earnestly at her, as though he wanted to say: "If only
you don't repent it." But he asked the question in the modest wording:
"Shall I send it at once?"

"Yes, if you please!" she answered, and her whole manner expressed a
coldness which startled Ludwig.

"Can genuine warmth of heart freeze so quickly?" he asked himself.
Madeleine von Wildenau felt the mute reproach and disappointment in
Ludwig's manner. She felt, too, that he was right, and called him back as he
reached the door. "Give it to me," she said, taking the telegram, "I will
consider the matter." Then meeting the eyes of the noble man, which now
brightened again for her sake, she added earnestly, holding out her hand,
"You understand me better than I do myself."

"I thank you for those words--they make me very proud, Countess!" said
Ludwig with a radiant glance, placing the telegram on the table. "I will go
now that I may not disturb you while you are considering what course to
pursue."

He left the room. Twilight was gathering. The countess sat by the table
holding the telegram clenched in her little hand.

"The people of Ammergau unconsciously exercise a moral constraint
which is irresistible. There is a power of truth in them which prevents even
self-deception in their presence!" she murmured half defiantly, half
admiringly. What was to be done now? To remain longer here and
countermand the dinner meant a positive breach with society. But who was
there here to thank her for such a sacrifice? Who cared for the Countess
Wildenau? She was one of the thousands who came and went, taking with
them a lofty memory, without leaving any remembrance in the mind of any
one. Why should she hold them accountable if she gave to this impression a
significance which was neither intended nor suspected. We must not force
upon men sacrifices which they do not desire!

She rested her arm on the table and sat irresolute. Now--now in this
mood, to return to the prosaic, superficial round, after imagining yesterday
that she stood face to face with deity? Could she do it? Was not the mute
reproach in Ludwig's glance true? She thoughtfully rested her beautiful face
on her hand.

She had not noticed a knock at the door, a carriage was driving by whose
rattle drowned every sound. For the same reason the person outside,
supposing that he had not heard the "come in!" softy opened the door. At
the noise the countess raised her head--Freyer stood before her.

"You have come, you did come!" she exclaimed, starting up and seizing
his hand that the sweet, blissful dream might not vanish once more.

"Excuse me if I disturb you," he said in a low, timid tone. "I--I should
not have come--but I could not bear to stay at home, I was so excited to-
day. When evening came, some impulse drove me here--I was--I had--"

"You had a desire to talk to some one who could understand you, and
this urged you to me, did it not?"

"Yes, Countess! But I should not have ventured to come in, had not--"

"Well?"

"Ludwig met me and said that you were going away--"

"Ah--and did you regret it?"

"I wished at least to bid you farewell and thank you for all your kindness
to my unhappy cousin Josepha!" he said evasively. "I neglected to do so
yesterday, I was so embarrassed."

"You are not sincere with me, Herr Freyer!" said the countess, motioning
to him to sit down. "This expression of thanks does not come from your
heart, for you do not care what I do for Josepha. That is merely the pretext
for coming to me--because you do not wish to confess what really brought
you. Am I not right?"

"Countess!" said Freyer, completely disconcerted, as he tried to rise.

She gently laid her hand on his, detaining him. "Stay! Your standard is so
rigid in everything--what is your view of truth?"

Freyer fixed his eyes on the floor.

"Is it true, when you say that you came to thank me for Josepha? Were
you not drawn hither by the feeling that, of all the thousands of souls who
pass you in the course of the summer, perhaps there is not one who could
understand you and your task as I do?"

Freyer clasped his hands on his knees and silently bent his head.

"Perhaps you have not thought of me as I have thought of you, all day
long, since our eyes met on the mountain, as though some higher power had
pointed us out to each other."

Freyer remained silent, but as the full cup overflows at the slightest
movement, tears again gushed from his eyes.

"Why did you look at me so from head to foot, pouring forth in that gaze
your whole soul with a world of grief and joy, as a blossoming tree showers

its flowers on the passer-by? Surely not on account of a woman's face,
though it may be passably fair, but because you felt that I perceived the
Christ in you and that it was He for whom I came. Your glance meant to tell
me: 'It is I whom you are seeking!' and I believe you. And when at last the
promise was fulfilled and the long sought redeemer stood before me, was it
by chance that his prophetic eye discovered me among the thousands of
faces when he said: 'But in many hearts day will soon dawn!' Did you not
seek me, as we look for a stranger to whom we must fulfill a promise given
on the journey?"

Freyer now raised his dark eyes and fixed them full upon her, but made
no reply.

"And is it true that you came yesterday, only because Ludwig wished it,
you who, spite of all entreaties, have kept ladies who had the world at their
feet waiting on your stairs for hours? Did you not come because you
suspected that I might be the woman with whom, since that meeting, you
had had some incomprehensible spiritual bond?"

Freyer covered his eyes with his hand, as if he was afraid more might be
read in them.

"Be truthful, Herr Freyer, it is unworthy of you and of me to play a
conventional farce. I am compelled to act so many in my life that I would
fain for once be frank, as mortal to mortal! Tell me simply, have I judged
correctly--yes or no?"

"Yes!" whispered Freyer, without looking up.

She gently drew his hand down. "And to-day--to-day--did you come
merely out of gratitude for your cousin?" she questioned with the archness
of her increasing certainty of happiness.

He caught the little hand with which she had clasped his, and raised it
ardently to his lips; then, as if startled that he had allowed himself to be
carried so far, he flung back his raven locks as if they had deluded his
senses, and pushed his chair farther away in order not to be again led into
temptation. She did not interfere--she knew that he was in her power--

struggle as he might, the dart was fixed. Yet the obstacles she had to
conquer were great and powerful. Coquetry would be futile, only the moral
force of a genuine feeling could cope with them, and of this she was
conscious, with a happiness never felt before. Again she searched her own
heart, and her rapid glance wandered from the thorn-scarred brow of the
wonderful figure before her, to pierce the depths of her own soul. Her love
for him was genuine, she was not toying with his heart; she wished, like
Mary Magdalene, to sanctify herself in his love. But she was the Magdalene
in the first stage. Had Christ been a man, and attainable like this man, what
transformations the Penitent's heart must have undergone, ere its fires
wrought true purification.

"Herr Freyer," the countess began in a low, eager tone, "you said
yesterday that it troubled you when people showed you idolatrous reverence
and you felt that you thereby robbed your Master. Can we give aught to any
earthly being without giving it to God?"

Freyer listened intently.

"Is there any soul which does not belong to God, did not emanate from
Him, is not a part of His power? And does not that which flows from one
part to another stream back in a perpetual circle to the Creator? We can take
nothing which does not come from God, give nothing which does not return
to Him. Do you know the principle of the preservation of power?"

"No," said Freyer, confused by his ignorance of something he was asked.

"Well, it can be explained in a very few words. Science has proved that
nothing in the universe can be lost, that even a force which is apparently
uselessly squandered is merely transformed into another. Thus in God
nothing can be lost, even though it has no direct relation to Him--for he is
the spiritual universe. True, every feeling does not produce a work of God,
any more than every effort of nature brings forth some positive result. But
as in the latter case the force expended is not lost, because it produces other,
though secondary results, so in God no sentiment of love and enthusiasm is
lost, even though it may relate to Him only in a secondary degree."

"Very true."

"Then if that is so,--how can any one rob this God, who surrounds us
like the universe, from which we come, into which we pass again, and in
which our forces are constantly transformed in a perpetual round of
change."

Freyer rested his head on his hand, absorbed in thought.

"And if a feeling is so deeply rooted in religion, so directly associated
with God as that which men offer to you. His representative, why should
you have these scruples?"

"I have never heard any one talk in this way! Pardon my faint-
heartedness, and ignorance--I am a poor, simple-hearted man--you will be
indulgent, will you not?"

"Freyer!" cried the countess, deeply moved, and spite of the distance to
which he had pushed his chair, held out her hand.

"You see, I had no opportunity to attend a higher school, I was so poor. I
lost my parents when a lad of twelve and received only the most necessary
instruction. All my knowledge I obtained afterwards by reading, and it is of
course defective and insufficient. On our mountains, beside our rushing
streams, among the hazel bushes whose nuts were often my only food, I
grew up, watching the horses sent to pasture with their colts. Up by St.
Gregory's chapel, where the Leine falls over the cliffs, I left the animals
grazing in the wide meadows, flung myself down in a field of gentian and,
lying on my back, gazed upward into the blue sky and thought it must
surely open, the transparent atmosphere must at last be pierced--as the bird
imagines, when it dashes its head against a pane of glass--so I learned to
think of God! And when my brain and heart grew giddy, as if I were
destined for something better, when a longing overwhelmed me which my
simple meditations could not quell, I caught one of my young horses by the
mane, swung myself on its bare back, and swept over the broad plain,
feeling myself a king."

He extended his arms, and now his face was suddenly transformed--
laughing, bright, joyous as the Swedes imagine their Neck, the kind,
friendly water sprite who still retains some of the mythical blood of the

Northern god of Spring, Freyer's namesake. "Ah, Countess--that was
poetry! Who could restore those days; that childish ignorance, that happy
hope, that freedom of innocence!"

Again, like the pictures in a kaleidoscope, his expression changed and a
gloomy melancholy spread its veil over his brow. "Alas!--that is all over!
My light-footed colts have become weary, clumsy animals, dragging loaded
wains, and I--I drag no less wearily the burden of life."

"How can you speak so at the moment when, yourself a miracle, you are
revealing to men the miracles of God? Is it not ungrateful!"

"Oh, no, Countess, I am grateful! But I do not so separate myself from
my part that I could be happy while portraying the sufferings of my
Redeemer! Do you imagine that I have merely learned the words by heart?
With His form, I have also taken His cross upon me! Since that time all my
youth has fled and a touch of pain pervades my whole life."

"Then you are His true follower--then you are doing what Simon of
Cyrene did! And do you believe that you ought not to accept even the
smallest portion of the gratitude which men owe to the Crucified One?
Must you share only His sufferings, not His joys, the joys bestowed by the
love and faith of moved and converted souls? Surely if you are so narrow-
minded, you understand neither yourself nor the love of God, Who has
chosen and favored you from among millions to renew to the world the
forgotten message of salvation."

"Oh God, oh God!--help me to keep my humility--this is too much."

Freyer started up and pressed his hand upon his brow as if to ward off an
invisible crown which was descending upon it.

The countess also rose and approached him. "Freyer, the suffering you
endure for Christ's sake, I share with you! It is the mystery in which our
souls found each other. Pain is eternal, Freyer, and that to which it gives
birth is imperishable! What do we feel when we stand before a painted or
sculptured image of the Crucified One? Pity, the most agonizing pity! I
have never been willing to believe it--but since yesterday I have known that

it is a solace to the believing soul to bestow a tender embrace upon the
lifeless image and to touch the artificial wounds with ardent lips. What must
it be when that image loves, feels, and suffers! When it speaks to us in tones
that thrill the inmost heart? When we see it quiver and bleed under the
lashes of the executioner--when the sweat of agony trickles from the brow
and real tears flow from the eyes? I ask, what must this be to us? Imagine
yourself for once the person who sees this--and then judge whether it is not
overpowering? If faith in the stone Christ works miracles--why should not
belief in the living one do far more? The pious delusion is so much the
greater, and faith brings blessing."

She clasped her hands upon his breast

"Come, image of mercy, bend down to me. Let me clasp your beloved
head and press upon your tortured brow the kiss of reconciliation for all
penitent humanity!" Then, taking his face between her hands, she lightly
pressed a fervent kiss upon the brow gently inclined toward her. "Now go
and lament that you have robbed your Master of this kiss. He will ask, with
a smile: 'Do you know for whom that kiss was meant--thee or me?' And you
will be spared an answer, for when you raise your eyes to Him, you will
find it imprinted on His brow."

She paused, overpowered by the sacredness of the moment. There are
times when our own words influence us like some unknown force, because
they express something which has been so deeply concealed in our hearts
that we ourselves were ignorant of its existence. This was the case now with
the countess. Freyer stood silently with clasped hands, as if in church.

It seemed as though some third person was addressing them--an invisible
person whom they must hold their very breath to understand.

It had grown late. The waning moon floated high above the low window
and brightened the little room with its cheering rays. The countess nodded.
"It is fulfilled!" Then she laid her hands in Freyer's: "For the first time since
my childhood I place my soul in the keeping of a human being! For the first
time since my childhood, I strip off all the arrogance of reason, for a higher
perception is hovering above me, drawing nearer and nearer with blissful
certainty! Is it love, is it faith? Whichever it may be--God dwells in both.

And--if philosophy says: 'I think, therefore I am,' I say: 'I love, therefore I
believe!'"

She humbly bowed her head. "And therefore I beseech you. Bless me,
you who are so divinely endowed, with the blessing which is shed upon and
emanates from you!"

Freyer raised his eyes to Heaven as if to call down the benediction she
implored, and there was such power in the fervid gaze that Madeleine von
Wildenau experienced a thrill almost of fear, as if in the presence of some
supernatural being. Then he made the sign of the cross over her: "In the
name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

A tremor of foreboding ran through her limbs as if the finger of God had
marked her for some mysterious destination and, with this rune, she had
been enrolled in the pallid host of those consecrated by sorrow as followers
of the deity.

With sweet submission she clasped the hand which had just imprinted
the mournful sign on brow and breast: "In the name of God, if only you are
near me!" Her head drooped on her bosom. Some one knocked at the door,
the countess' brain reeled so much that she was forced to cling to Freyer for
support.

Josepha timidly asked if she wanted a light.

"Light! Was it dark?"

"Very well," she answered absently.

Josepha brought the lamp and enquired when the countess desired to
have supper? Freyer took his hat to go.

"I shall eat nothing more to-night!" said the countess in a curt, impatient
tone, and Josepha timidly withdrew.

Madeleine von Wildenau covered her face with both hands like a person
who had been roused from a beautiful dream to bare reality.

"Alas--that there must be other people in the world, besides ourselves!"
She sighed heavily, as if to take breath after the terrible fall. Freyer, hat in
hand, approached her, calm and self-controlled. Joseph Freyer, addressing
Countess Wildenau, had no remembrance of what the penitent soul had just
confided to the image of the Redeemer.

"Allow me to take my leave, your Highness," he said in a gentle, but
distant tone.

The countess understood the delicate modesty of this conduct. "Did your
blue gentians teach this tact? It would seem that lonely pastures, whispering
hazel copses, and dashing mountain streams are better educators of the
heart, for those who understand their mysterious language, than many of
our schools."

Freyer was silent a moment, then with eyes bent on the floor, he said:
"May I ask when your Highness intends to leave to-morrow?"

"Must I go, Freyer?"

"Your Highness--"

"Here is a telegram which announces my arrival at home to-morrow. Tell
me, Freyer, shall I send it?"

"How can I decide--" stammered Freyer in confusion.

"I wish to know whether you--you, Freyer, would like to keep me here?"

"But Good Heavens, your Highness--is it seemly for me to express such
a wish? Of course it will be a great pleasure to have you remain--but how
could I seek to influence you in any way?"

"Mere phrases!" said the countess, disappointed and offended. "Then, if
it is a matter of indifference to you whether I go or stay, I will send the
telegram." She went to the table to add something.

Suddenly he stood close beside her, with a beseeching, tearful glance--
and laid his hand upon the paper.

"No--do not send it."

"Not send it?" asked Madeleine in blissful expectation. "Not send it--
then what am I to do?"

His lips moved several times, as if he could not utter the word--but at
last it escaped from his closed heart, and with an indescribable smile he
murmured: "Stay!"

Ah! A low cry of exultation escaped the countess, and the telegram lay
torn upon the table. Then with a trembling hand she wrote the second,
which she requested him to send at once. It contained only the words: "Am
ill--cannot come!"

He was still standing at her side, and she gave it to him to read.

"Is it true?" he asked, after glancing at it, looking at her with timid,
sportive reproach. "Are you ill?"

"Yes!" she said caressingly, laying her hand, as if she felt a pang, upon
her heart. "I am!"

He clasped both in his own and asked softly in a tone which sent a thrill
of happiness through every vein: "How shall we cure this illness?"

She felt his warm breath on her waving hair--and dared not stir.

Then, with sudden resolution he shook off the thrall: "Good-night,
Countess!"

The next moment he was hurrying past the window.

Ludwig, wondering at his Mend's hasty departure, entered.

"What has happened, Countess?"

"Signs and wonders have happened," she said, extending her arms as if
transfigured.

CHAPTER X.
IN THE EARLY MORNING

"Rise Mary! Night is darkening and the wintry storms are raging--but be
comforted, in the early morning, in the Spring garden, you will see me
again."

The countess woke from a short slumber as if some one had uttered the
words aloud. She glanced around the dusky room, it was still early, scarcely
a glimmer of light pierced through the chinks of the shutters. She tried to
sleep again, but in vain. The words constantly rang in her ears: "In the early
morning you will see me again." Now the chinks in the shutters grew
brighter, and one golden arrow after another darted through. The countess
threw aside the coverlet and started up. Why should she torment herself
with trying to court sleep? Outside a dewy garden offered its temptations.

True, it was an autumn, not a spring garden. Yet for her it was Spring--it
had dawned in her heart--the first springtime of her life.

Up and away! Should she wake Josepha, who slept above her? Nay, no
sound, no word must disturb this sacred morning stillness.

She dressed and, half an hour later, glided lightly, unseen, into the
garden.

The clock in the church steeple was striking six. A fresh autumn breeze
swept like a band of jubilant sprites through the tops of the ancient trees,
then rushing downward, tossed her silken hair as though it would fain bear
away the filmy strands to some envious wood-nymph to weave nets from it
for the poor mortals who might lose themselves in her domain.

On the ground at her feet, too, the grasses and shrubs swayed and rustled
as if little gnomes were holding high revel there. A strange mood pervaded
all nature.

Madeleine von Wildenau looked upward; there were huge cloud-shapes
in the sky, but the sun was shining brightly in a broad expanse of blue. The
bells were ringing for early mass. The countess clasped her hands.
Everything was silent and lonely, no eye beheld, no ear heard her, save the
golden orb above. The birds carolling their matin songs, the flowers whose
cups were filled with morning dew, the buzzing, humming bees--all were
celebrating the great matins of awakening nature--and she, whose heart was
full of the morning dew of the first genuine feeling of her life, was she
alone not to join in the chorus of gratitude of refreshed creation?

There is a language whose key we do not possess. It is the Sanscrit of
Nature and of the human soul when it communes with the deity. The
countess sank silently down on the dewy grass. She did not pray in set
words--there was an interchange of thought, her heart spoke to God, and
reason knew not what it confided to Him.

In the early morning in the spring garden "thou wilt see me again!"
There again spoke the voice which had roused her so early! The countess
raised her head--but still remained kneeling as if spell-bound. Before her
stood the Promised One.

She could say nothing save the word uttered by Mary Magdalene:
"Master!"

A loving soul can never be surprised by the object of its love because it
expects him always and everywhere, yet it appears a miracle when its
expectation becomes fulfilment.

"Have I interrupted your prater? I did not see you because you were
kneeling"--he said, gently.

"You interrupt my prayer--you who first taught me to pray?" she asked,
holding out her hand that he might help her rise. "Tell me, how did you
come here?"

"I could not sleep--some yearning urged me to your presence--to your
garden."

He gently raised her, while she gazed into his eyes as if enraptured.
"Master!" she repeated. "Oh, my friend, I was like Mary Magdalene, my
Lord had been taken away and I knew not where they had laid Him. Now I
know. He was buried in my own heart and the world had rolled the stone
before it, but yesterday--yesterday He rose and the stone was cast aside. So
some impulse urged me into the garden early this morning to seek Him and
lo--He stands before me as He promised."

"Do not speak so!--I am well aware that the words are not meant for me,
but if you associate Christ so closely with my personality, I fear that you
will confound Him with me, and that His image will be dimmed, if anything
should ever shadow mine! I beseech you, Countess, by all that is sacred--
learn to separate Him from me--or you have not grasped the true nature of
Christ, and my work will be evil!" He stood before her with hand uplifted in
prophecy, the outlines of his powerful form were sharply relieved against
the dewy, shining morning air. Purity, chastity, the loftiest, most inspired
earnestness were expressed in his whole bearing, all the dignity of the soul
and of primeval, divinely created human nature.

Must not she have that feeling of adoration which always seizes upon us
whenever, no matter where it may be, the deity is revealed in His creations?
No, she did not understand what he meant, she only understood that there
was something divine in him, and that the perception of this nearness to
God filled her with a happiness never known before. Joseph Freyer was the
guarantee of the existence of a God in whom she had lost faith--why should
she imagine Him in any other form than the one which she had found Him
again? "Thou shalt make thyself no graven image!" Must this Puritanically
misunderstood literal statement destroy man's dearest possession, the
symbol of the reality? Then the works of Raphael, Titian, and Rubens must
be effaced, and the unions of miracles of faith, wrought in the souls of the
human race by the representations of the divine nature.

"Oh blessed image-worship, now I understand your meaning!" she
joyously exclaimed. "Whoever reviles you has never felt the ardent desire
of the weak human heart, the captive of the senses, for contact with the
unapproachable, the sight of the face of the ever concealed yet ever felt
divinity. Here, here stands the most perfect image Heaven and earth ever

created, and must I not kneel before it, clasp it with all the tendrils of my
aspiring soul? No! No one ought, no one can prevent me."

Half defiantly, half imploringly, the words poured from her inmost soul
like molten lava. "Let all misunderstand me--save you, Freyer! You, by
whom God wrought the miracle, ought not to be narrow-minded! You ought
not to destroy it for me, you least of all!" Then she pleaded, appealed to
him: "Let saints, let glorified spirits grasp only the essence and dispense
with the earthly pledge--I cannot! I am a type of the millions who live
snared by the weaknesses, the ideas, the pleasures of the world of sense; do
you suddenly require of me the abstract purity and spiritualization of
religious thought, to which only the highest innate or required perfection
leads? Be forbearing to me--God has various ways of drawing the rebellious
to Him! To the soul which is capable of material ideas only. He gives
revelations by the senses until, through pain and sorrow, it has worked its
way upward to intellectual ones. And until I can behold the real God in His
shadowy sphere, I shall cling lovingly and devoutly to His image."

She sank on her knees before him in passionate entreaty. "Do not destroy
it for me, rather aid the pious delusion which is to save me! Bear patiently
with the woe of a soul seeking its salvation, and leave the rest to God!" She
leaned her brow against the hand which hung by his side and was silent
from excess of emotion.

The tall, stalwart man stood trembling as Abraham may have stood
before the thicket when God stayed his uplifted arm and cried in tender
love: "I will not accept thy sacrifice."

He had a presentiment that the victim would be snatched from him also,
if he was too stern, and all the floods of his heart burst forth, all the flood
gates of love and pity opened. Bending down, he held her head in a close,
warm clasp between both hands, and touched her forehead with quivering
lips.

A low cry of unutterable bliss, and she sank upon his breast; the next
instant she lifted her warm rosy lips to his.

But he drew back a step in agonizing conflict; "No, Countess, for
Heavens's sake no, it must not be."

"Why not?" she asked, her face blanching.

"Let me remain worthy of the miracle God has wrought upon you
through me. If I am to represent Christ to you, I must at least feel and think
as He did, so far as my human weakness will permit, or everything will be a
deception."

The countess covered her face with her hands. "Ah, no one can utter
such words who knows aught of love and longing!" she moaned between
her set teeth in bitter scorn.

"Do you think so?" exclaimed Freyer, and the tone in which he spoke
pierced her heart like a cry of pain. Drawing her hands from her face, he
forced her to meet his glowing eyes: "Look at me and see whether the tears
which now course down my cheeks express no love and longing. Look at
yourself, your sweet, pouting lips, your sparkling eyes, all your radiant
charms, and ask yourself whether a man into whose arms such a woman
falls can remain unmoved? When you have answered these questions, say
to yourself: 'How that man must love his Saviour, if he buys with such
sacrifices the right to wear His crown of thorns!' Perhaps you will then
better understand what I said just now of the spirit and nature of Christ."

Countess Madeleine made no reply, but wringing her hands, bent her
eyes on the ground.

"Have I wounded you, Countess?"

"Yes, unto death. But it is best so. I understand you. If I am to love you
as Christ, you must be Christ. And the more severe you are, the higher you
raise me! Alas--the pain is keen!" She pressed her hand upon her heart as
though to close a wound, a pathetic expression of resignation rested on her
pallid face.

"Oh, Countess, do not make my task too hard for me. I am but mortal!
Oh, how can I see you suffer? I can renounce everything, but to hurt you in

doing so--is beyond my power."

"Do not say you in this solemn hour! Call me by my name, I would fain
hear it once from your lips!"

"And what is your name?"

"Maria Magdalena."

"No. You call yourself so under the impression of the Passion Play."

"I was christened Maria Magdalena von Prankenberg."

"Maria Magdalena," he repeated, his eyes resting upon her with deep
emotion as she stood before him, she whose bearing was usually so
haughty, now humble, silent, submissive, like the Penitent before the
Master. Suddenly, overpowered by his feelings, he extended his arms: "My
Magdalena."

"My Master, my salvation," she sobbed, throwing herself upon his
breast. He clasped her with a divine gesture of love in his embrace.

"Oh, God she has flown hither like a frightened dove and nestled in my
breast. Poor dove, I will conceal and protect you from every rude breeze,
from every base touch of the world! Build your nest in my heart--here you
shall rest in the peace of God!" He pressed her head close to his heart.

"How you tremble, dove! May I call you so?"

"Oh, forever!"

"Are you wearied by your long flight? Poor dove! Have you fluttered
hither to me across the wild surges of the world, to bring the olive branch,
the token of reconciliation, which makes my peace with things temporal
and eternal? And must I now thrust you from me, saying as Christ said to
Magdalene! 'Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father?' Shall I
drive you forth again into this chaos, that the faithful wings which bore you
on the right way may droop exhausted till you perish in the billows of the
world?" He clasped her still more closely: "Oh, God! This cannot be Thy

will! But I think I understand Thee, Omnipotent One--Thou hast entrusted
this soul to me, and I will guard it for Thee loyally!"

It was an hour of sacred happiness. Her head rested on his breast. Not a
leaf stirred on the boughs. The dense shadow of the beeches surrounded
them, separating them from the world as if the universe contained naught
save this one spot of earth, and the dream of this moment.

"Tell me one thing," she whispered, "only one, and I will suffer, atone,
and purchase this hour of Heaven by any sacrifice: Do you love me?"

He looked at her, his whole soul in his eyes. "Must I tell you so?" he
asked mournfully. "What can it serve you to put your hand into the wound
in my heart, and see how deep it is? You cannot cure it. Have you not felt,
from the first moment, that some irresistible spell drew me to you, forcing
me, the recluse, to come to you again and yet again? What was it that drove
me from my couch early this morning and sent me hither to your closed
house and deserted garden? What was it save love?"

"Ever since four o'clock I have wandered restlessly about with my eyes
fixed on the shutters of your room, till the impetuous longing of my soul
roused you and drew you from your warm bed into the chill morning air.
Come, you are shivering, let me warm you, nestle in my arms and feel the
glow of my heart."

He sat down on the bench under the arbor, and--he knew not how it
happened--she clung to him like a child and he could not repulse her, he
could not! She stroked his long black locks with her little soft hand and
rested her head against his cheek--she was the very embodiment of
innocence, simplicity, girlish artlessness. And in low murmurs she poured
out her whole heart to him as a child confides in its father. Without reserve,
she told him all the bitter sorrow of her whole life--a life which had never
known either love or happiness! Having lost her mother when a mere child,
she had been educated by a cold-hearted governess and a pessimistic tutor.
Her father, wholly absorbed by the whirl of fashionable life, had cared
nothing for her, and when scarcely out of the school-room had compelled
her to marry a rich old man with whom for eight years existence was one
long torment. Then, in mortal fear lest her listener would not forgive her,

yet faithful to the truth, she confessed also how her eager soul, yearning for
love, had striven to find some compensation, rebelling against a law which
recognized the utmost immorality as moral, till sin itself seemed virtue
compared to the wrong of such a bond. But as the forbidden draught did not
quench her thirst, a presentiment came to her that she was longing for that
spring of which Christ said: "But whosoever drinketh of the water that I
shall give him shall never thirst!" This had brought her here, and here had
been opened the purifying, redeeming fount of life and love.

"Now you know all! My soul lies open before you! By the self denial
with which I risked my highest blessing, yourself, and revealed my whole
past life to you, you can judge whether I have been ennobled by your love."
Slipping from his embrace, she sank on her knees before him: "Now judge
the Penitent--I will accept from your hand whatever fate you may impose.
But one thing I beseech you to do, whatever you may ask of me: remember
Christ."

Freyer raised his large dark eyes. "I do remember Him." Bending toward
her with infinite gentleness, he lifted her in his strong arms: "Come,
Magdalena! I cannot condemn you," he said, and the Penitent again rested
in the embrace of compassion.

"There are drops of cold perspiration on your brow," said Madeleine
after a long silence. "Are you suffering?"

"I suffer gladly. Do not heed it!" he said with effort.

Then a glance of loving inquiry searched his inmost soul. "Do you regret
the kiss which you just denied me?" she asked, scarcely above her breath,
but the whispered question made him wince as though a probe had entered
some hidden wound. She felt it, and some irresistible impulse urged her to
again raise her pouting lips. He saw their rosy curves close to his own, and
gently covered them with his hand. "Be true! Let us be loyal to each other.
Do not make my lot harder than it is already! You do not know what you are
unchaining." Starting up, he clasped his hands upon his breast, eagerly
drinking in long draughts of the invigorating morning air. The gloomy fire
which had just glowed in his eyes changed again to a pure, calm light. "This

is so beautiful, do not disturb it," he said gently, kissing her on the forehead.
"My child, my dove! Our love shall remain pure and sacred--shall it not?"

"Yes!" she murmured in reverent submission, for now he was once more
the image of Christ, and she bent silently to kiss his hand. He did not resist,
for he felt that it was a comfort to her. Then he disappeared, calm, lofty, like
one who has stripped off the fetters of this world.

Madeleine von Wildenau was left alone. Pressing her forehead against
the trunk of the tree, a rude but firm support, she had sunk back upon the
bench, closing her eyes. Her heart was almost bursting with its seething tide
of emotion. Tears coursed down her cheeks. God had given her so much,
that she almost swooned under this wealth of happiness. Only a touch of
pain could balance it, or it would be too great for mortal strength to bear.
This pain was an unsatisfied yearning, a vague feeling that her destiny
could only be fulfilled through this love, and that she was still so far from
possessing it. God has ordained that the human heart can bear only a certain
measure of happiness and, when this limit is passed, joy becomes pain
because we are not to experience here on earth bliss which belongs to a
higher stage of development. That is why the greatest joy brings tears, that
is why, amid the utmost love, we believe that we have never loved enough,
that is why, amid the excess of enjoyment, we are consumed with the desire
for a rapture of which this is but a foretaste, that is why every pleasure
teaches us to yearn for a new and greater one, so that we may never be
satisfied, but continually suffer.

There is but one power which, with strong hand, maintains the balance,
teaches us to be sparing of joy, helps us endure pain, dams all the streams of
desire and sends them back to toil and bear fruit within the soul: asceticism!
It cuts with firm touch the luxuriant shoots from the tree of life, that its
strength may concentrate within the marrow of the trunk and urge the
growth upward. Asceticism! The bugbear of all the grown up children of
this world. Wherever it appears human hearts are in a tumult as if death
were at hand. Like flying ants bearing away their eggs to a place of safety,
the disturbed consciences of worldlings anxiously strive to hide their secret
desires and pleasures from the dreaded foe! But whoever dares to meet its
eyes sees that it is not the bugbear which the apostles of reason and nature

would fain represent it, no fleshless, bloodless shadow which strives to
destroy the natural bond between the Creator and creation, but a being with
a glowing heart, five wounds, and a brow bedewed with drops of sweat. Its
office is stern and gloomy, its labor severe and thankless, for it has to
struggle violently with rebellious souls and, save for the aid of the army of
priests who have consecrated themselves to its service, it would succumb in
the ceaseless struggle with materialism which is ever developing into higher
consciousness! Yet whoever has once given himself to her service finds her
a lofty, earnest, yet gracious goddess! She is the support of the feeble, the
comforter of the unhappy and the solitary, the angel of the self-sacrificing.
Whoever feels her hand upon a wounded, quivering heart, knows that she is
the benefactress, not the taskmistress of humanity.

Nor does she always appear as the gloomy mourner beside the corpse of
murdered joys. Sometimes roses wreath the thorn-scarred brow, and she
becomes the priestess of love. When the world and its self-created duties
rudely sunders two hearts which God created for each other and leaves
them to waste away in mortal anguish, she is the compassionate one. With
sanctifying power she raises the struggling souls above the dividing barrier
of temporal things, teaches them to trample the earth under their feet and
unites them with an eternal bond in the purer sphere of intellectual love.
Thus she unites what morality severs. Morality alone is harsh, not
asceticism. Morality pitilessly prescribes her laws, unheeding the weakness
of poor human hearts, asceticism helps them to submit to them. Morality
demands obedience, asceticism teaches it. Morality punishes, asceticism
corrects. The former judges by appearances, the latter by the reality.
Morality has only the reward of the world, asceticism of Heaven! Morality
made Mary Magdalene an outcast, asceticism led her to the Lord and
obtained His mercy for her.

And as the beautiful Magdalene of the present day sat with closed eyes,
letting her thoughts be swept along upon the wildly foaming waves of her
hot blood, she fancied that the bugbear once so dreaded because she had
known it only under the guise of the fulfilment of base, loathsome duty was
approaching. But this time the form appeared in its pure beauty, bent
tenderly over her, a pallid shape of light, and gazed at her with the eyes of a
friend! Low, mysterious words, in boding mournful tones, were murmured

in her ears. As she listened, her tears flowed more gently, and with childlike
humility she clasped the sublime vision and hid her face on its breast. Then
she felt upon her brow a chill kiss, like a breath from the icy regions of
eternal peace, and the apparition vanished. But as the last words of
something heard in a dream often echo in the ears of the person awaking,
the countess as she raised her closed lids, remembered nothing save the
three words: "On the cross!" ...

CHAPTER XI.
MARY AND MAGDALENE

"On the cross"--was it a consolation or a menace? Who could decipher
this rune? It was like all the sayings of oracles. History would explain its
meaning, and when this was done, it would be too late, for it would be
fulfilled! The countess still sat motionless in the old arbor. Her destiny had
commenced on the cross, that was certain. Hitherto she had been a blind
blank, driven like thousands by the wheel of chance. She had first entered
into communication with the systematic order of divine thought in the hour
when she saw Joseph Freyer on the cross. Will her fate end as it began,
upon the cross? An icy chill ran through her veins. She loved the cross,
since it bore the man whom she loved, but what farther influence was it to
have upon her life! And what had pallid asceticism to do with her? What
was the source of all these oppressive, melancholy forebodings, which
could only be justified if a conflict with grave duties or constraining
circumstances was impending. Why should they not love each other, both
were free! But--she not only desired to love him, she wished to be his, to
claim him hers. Every loving woman longs for the fulfilment of her destiny
in the man she loves. How was she to obtain this fulfilment? What is born
in morality, cannot exist in immorality. He knew this, felt it, and it was the
cause of his sternness. This was the source of her grief, the visit of the
mysterious comforter, and the warning of the cross. But must the brightest
happiness, the beautiful bud of love wither on the cross, because it grew
there? Was there no other sacred soil where it might thrive and develop to
the most perfect flower? Was there no wedding altar, no sacrament of
marriage? She drew back as if she suddenly stood on the verge of a
yawning abyss. Her brain reeled! A throng of jeering spectres seemed
grinning at her, watching with malicious delight the leap the Countess
Wildenau was about to take, down to a peasant! She involuntarily glanced
around as if some one might have been listening to the thought. But all was
still and silent; her secret, thank Heaven, was still her own.

"Eternal Providence, what fate hast thou in store for me?" her
questioning gaze asked the blue sky. What was the meaning of this
extraordinary conflict? She loved Freyer as the God whom he represented,
yet he could be hers only as a man; she must either resign him or the divine
illusion. She felt that the instant which made him hers as a man would break
the spell, and she would no longer love him! The God was too far above her
to be drawn down to her level, the man was too low to be raised to it. Was
ever mortal woman thus placed between two alternatives and told:
"Choose!" The golden shower fell into Danae's lap, the swan flew to Leda,
the bull bore Europa away, and Jupiter did not ask: "In what form do you
wish me to appear?" But to the higher consciousness of the Christian
woman the whole responsibility of free choice is given. And what is the
reward of this torturing dilemma? If she chooses the God, she must resign
the man, if she chooses the man she must sacrifice the God. Which can she
renounce, which relinquish? She could not decide, and wrung her hands in
agony. Why must this terrible discord be hers? Had she ventured too boldly
into the sphere of divine life that, as if in mockery, she was given the choice
between the immortal and the mortal in order, in the struggle between the
two, to recognize the full extent of her weakness?

It seemed so! As if utterly wearied by the sore conflict, she hid her face
in her hands and called to her aid the wan comforter who had just
approached so tenderly. But in vain, the revelations were silent, the deity
would not aid her!

"You ought to go up the mountain to-day, Countess," called a resonant
voice. This time no pale phantom, no grimacing spectre stood before her,
but her friend Ludwig, who gazed into her eyes with questioning sympathy.
She clasped his hand.

"Whenever you approach me, my friend, I can never help receiving you
with a 'Thank Heaven!' You are one of those whose very presence is
beneficial to the sufferer, as the physician's entrance often suffices to soothe
the patient without medicines."

Ludwig sat down on the bench beside the countess. "My sisters and
Josepha are greatly troubled because you have not yet ordered breakfast,
and no one ventured to ask. So I undertook the dangerous commission, and

your Highness can see yonder at the door how admiringly my sisters' eyes
are following me."

The countess laughed. "Dear me, am I so dreaded a tyrant?"

"No doubt you are a little inclined to be one," replied Ludwig,
quizzically; "now and then a sharp point juts from a hidden coronet. I felt
one myself yesterday?"

"When--how?"

"May I remind you of it?"

"Certainly."

"When you poured all your wrath upon poor Freyer, and resolved to
leave Ammergau at once. Then I was puzzled for a moment."

"Really?" said the countess with charming embarrassment. "Then I was
not mistaken--I perceived it, and therefore delayed sending the telegram.
People ought not to take such passing ebullitions so seriously."

"Yes, Countess, but that 'passing ebullition,' might have made poor
Freyer miserable for a long time. Pray, have more patience and tolerance in
future. Natures so powerful and superior as yours fail to exert a destructive
influence upon a circle of simple folk like ourselves, only when they show a
corresponding degree of generosity, which suffices to excuse all our
awkwardnesses. Otherwise you will some day thrust us down from the
height to which you have raised us, and that would be far worse than if we
had never been withdrawn from our modest sphere."

"You are right!" said the countess, thoughtfully.

"My fear is that we are capable only of rousing your interest, not fixing
it. We are on too unequal a footing, we feel and understand your spell, but
are too simple and inexperienced not to be dazzled and confused by its ever
varying phantasmagoria. Therefore, Countess, you are as great a source of
peril as of happiness."

"Hm! I understand. But suppose that for the sake of you people of
Ammergau I desired to return to plainness--and simplicity."

"You cannot, Countess, you are too young."

"What do you mean? That would be the very reason I should be able to
do so."

"No, for you have passed the age when people easily accommodate
themselves to new circumstances. Too many of the shoots of luxury have
gained a generous growth; they will assert their claims and cannot be forced
back into the seeds whence they came. Not until they have lived out their
time in the world and died can they form the soil for a new and, if you
desire it, more primitive and simple development!--Any premature attempt
of this kind will last only a few moments and even these would be a
delusion. But what to you would be passing moments of disappointment, to
those who shared them would be--lifelong destiny. Our clumsy natures
cannot make these graceful oscillations from one feeling to another, we
stake all on one and lose it, if we are deceived."

The countess looked earnestly at him.

"You are a stern monitor, Ludwig Gross!" she said, thoughtfully. "Do
you fear that I might play a game with one of you?"

"An unconscious one, Countess--as the waves toy with a drifting boat."

"Well, that would at least be no cruel one!" replied the lady, smiling.

"Any sport, Countess, would be cruel, which tore one of these calm souls
from its quiet haven here and set it adrift rudderless on the high sea of
passion." He rose. "Pardon me--I am taking too much liberty."

"Not more than my friendship gave you a right to say. You brought your
friend to me; you are right to warn me if you imagine I should heedlessly
throw the priceless gift away! But, Ludwig Gross"--she took his hand--"do
you know that I prize it so highly that I should not consider myself too great

a recompense? Do you know that you have just found me in a sore struggle
over this problem?"

Ludwig Gross drew back a step as if he could not grasp the full meaning
of the words. So momentous did they seem that he turned pale. "Is it
possible?" he stammered.

A tremulous gesture of the hand warned him to say no more. "I don't
know--whether it is possible! But that I could even think of it, will enable
you to imagine what value your gift possesses for me. Not a word, I
beseech you. Give me time--and trust me. So many marvels have been
wrought in me during the past few days, that I give myself up to the
impulse of the moment and allow myself to be led by an ever-ruling
Providence--I shall be dealt with kindly."

Ludwig, deeply moved, kissed his companion's hand. "Countess, the
impulse which moves you at this moment must unconsciously thrill every
heart in Ammergau--as the sleeping child feels, even in its dreams, when a
good fairy approaches its cradle. And it is indeed so; for, in you conscious
culture approaches unconscious nature--it is a sublime moment, when the
highest culture, like the fairy beside the cradle, listens to the breathing of
humanity, where completion approaches the source of being, and drinks
from it fresh vigor."

"Yes," cried the countess, enthusiastically: "That is it. You understand
me perfectly. All civilization must gain new strength from the fountain of
nature or its sources of life would become dry--for they perpetually derive
their nourishment from that inexhaustible maternal bosom. Where this is
not accomplished in individual lives, the primeval element, thus disowned,
avenges itself in great social revolutions, catastrophes which form epochs in
the history of the world. It is only a pity that in such phases of violent
renewal the labor of whole epochs of civilization is lost. Therefore souls in
harmony with their age must try to reconcile peacefully what, taken
collectively, assumes the proportions of contrasts destructive to the
universe."

"And where could we find this reconciliation, save in love?" cried
Ludwig, enthusiastically.

"You express it exactly: that is the perception toward which minds are
more and more impelled, and whose outlines in art and science appear more
and more distinctly. That is the secret of the influence of Parsifal, which
extends far beyond the domain of art and, in another province, the success
of the Passion Play! To one it revealed itself under one guise, to another
under another. To me it was here that the very source of love appeared. And
as you, who revealed it to me, are pervaded by the great lesson--I will test it
first upon you. Brother! Friend! I will aid you in every strait and calamity,
and you shall see that I exercise love, not only in words, but that the power
working within me will accomplish deeds also." She clasped her hands
imploringly: "And if I love one of you more than the others, do not blame
me. The nearer to the focus of light, the stronger the heat! He, that one, is
surely the focus of the great light which, emanating from you, illumines the
whole world. I am so near him--could I remain cold?"

"Ah, Countess--now I will cast aside all fears for my friend. In Heaven's
name, take him. Even if he consumes under your thrall--pain, too, is
godlike, and to suffer for you is a grand, a lofty destiny, a thousand-fold
fairer and better than the dull repose of an every day happiness."

"Good heavens, when have I ever heard such language!" exclaimed the
countess, gazing admiringly at the modest little man, whose cheeks were
glowing with the flush of the loftiest feeling. He stood before her in his
plain working clothes, his clear-cut profile uplifted, his eyes raised with a
searching gaze as if pursuing the vanishing traces of a lofty, unattainable
goal.

She rose: "There is not a day, not an hour here, which does not bring me
something grand. Woe befall me if I do not show myself worthy of the
obligation your friendship imposes, I should be more guilty than those to
whom the summons of the ideal has never come; who have never stood face
to face with men like you."

Ludwig quietly held out his hand and clasped hers closely in her own.
The piercing glance of his artist-eye seemed to read the inmost depths of
her soul.

After a long pause Madeleine von Wildenau interrupted the silence:
"There stands your sister in great concern over my bodily welfare! Well
then, let us remember that we are human--unfortunately! Will you breakfast
with me?"

"I thank you, I have already breakfasted," said Ludwig, modestly,
motioning to Sephi to be ready.

"Then at least bear me company." Taking his arm, she went with him to
the arbor covered with a wild grape-vine where the table was spread. She
sat down to the simple meal, while her companion served her with so much
tact and grace that she could not help thinking involuntarily; "And these are
peasants? What ought we aristocrats to be?" Then, as if in mockery of this
reflection, a man in his shirt-sleeves with his jacket flung over his arm and a
scythe in his hand passed down the street by the fence. "Freyer!" exclaimed
the countess, her face aflame: "The Messiah with a scythe?"

Freyer stopped. "You called me, Countess?"

"Where are you going with that implement, Herr Freyer?" she asked,
coldly, in evident embarrassment.

"To mow my field!" he answered quietly. "I have just time, and I want to
try to harvest a little hay. Almost everything goes to ruin during the
Passion!"

"But why do you cut it yourself?"

"Because I have no servant, Countess!" said Freyer, smiling, raised his
hat with the dignified gesture characteristic of him, and moved on as firmly
and proudly as though the business he was pursuing was worthy of a king.
And so it was, when he pursued it. A second blush crimsoned Madeleine
von Wildenau's fair forehead. But this time it was because she had been
ashamed of him for a moment. "Poor Freyer! His little patrimony was a
patch of ground, and should it be accounted a degradation that he must
receive the scanty gift of nature directly from her hand, or rather win it
blade by blade in the sweat of his brow?" So she reasoned.

Then he glanced back at her and she felt that the look, outshining the
sun, had illuminated her whole nature. The fiery greeting of a radiant soul!
She waved her white hand to him, and he again raised his hat.

"Where is Freyer's field?"

"Not far from us, just outside the village. Would you like to go there?"

"No, it would trouble me. I should not like to see him toiling for his daily
bread. Men such as he ought not to find it necessary, and it must end in
some way. God sent me here to equalize the injustice of fate."

"You cannot accomplish this with Freyer, Countess, he would have been
a rich man long ago, if he had been willing to accept anything. What do you
imagine he has had offered by ladies who, from sacred and selfish motives,
under the influence of his personation of the Christ, were ready to make any
sacrifice? If ever poverty was an honor to a man, it is to Freyer, for he
might have been in very different circumstances and instead is content with
the little property received from his father, a bit of woodland, a field, and a
miserable little hut. To keep the nobility and freedom of his soul, he toils
like a servant and cares for house, field, and wood with his own hands."

"Just see him now, Countess," he added, "You have never beheld any
man look more aristocratic while at work than he, though he only wields a
scythe."

"You are a loyal friend, Ludwig Gross," she answered. "And an eloquent
advocate! Come, take me to him."

She hurried into the house, returning with a broad-brimmed hat on her
head, which made her face look as blooming and youthful as a girl's. Long
undressed kid gloves covered her arms under the half flowing sleeves of her
gown, and she carried over her shoulder a scarlet sunshade which
surrounded her whole figure with a roseate glow. There was a warmth, a
tempting charm in her appearance like the velvety bloom of a ripe peach.
Ludwig Gross gazed at her in wonder.

"You are--fatally beautiful!" he involuntarily exclaimed, shaking his
head mournfully, as we do when we see some inevitable disaster
approaching a friend. "No one ought to be so beautiful," he added,
disapprovingly.

Madeleine von Wildenau laughed merrily. "Oh! you comical friend, who
offers with so sour a visage the most flattering compliments possible. Our
young society men might take lessons from you! Pardon me for laughing,"
she said apologetically, as Ludwig's face darkened. "But it came so
unexpectedly, I was not prepared for such a compliment here," and in spite
of herself, she laughed again, the compliment was too irresistible.

Her companion was deeply offended. He saw in this outbreak of mirth a
levity which outraged his holiest feelings. These were "the graceful
oscillations from one mood to another," as he had termed it that day, which
he had so dreaded for his friend, and which now perplexed his own
judgment!

A moment was sufficient to reveal this to the countess, in the next she
had regained her self-control and with it the power of adapting herself to the
earnestness of her friend's mood.

He was walking silently at her side with a heavy heart. There had been
something in that laugh which he could not fathom, readily as he grasped
any touch of humor. To the earnest woman he had seen that morning, he
would have confided his friend in the belief that he was fulfilling a lofty
destiny; to the laughing, coquettish woman of the world, he grudged him;
Joseph Freyer was far too good for such a fate.

They had walked on, each absorbed in thought, leaving the village
behind, into the open country. Few people were at work, for during the
Passion there is rarely time to till the fields.

"There he is!" Ludwig pointed to a man swinging his scythe with a
powerful arm. The countess had dreaded the sight, yet now stood watching
full of admiration, for these movements were as graceful as his gestures.
The natural symmetry which was one of his characteristic qualities rendered
him a picturesque figure even here, while toiling in the fields. His arms

described rhythmically returning circles so smoothly, the poise of the elastic
body, bending slightly forward, was so noble, and he performed the labor so
easily that it seemed like a graceful gymnastic exercise for the training of
the marvellous limbs. The countess gazed at him a long time, unseen.

A woman's figure, bearing a jug, approached from the opposite side of
the meadow and offered Freyer a drink. "I have brought some milk. You
must be thirsty, it is growing warm," the countess heard her say. She was a
gracious looking woman, clad in simple country garb, evidently somewhat
older than Freyer, but with a noble, virginal bearing and features of classic
regularity. Every movement was dignified, and her expression was calm
and full of kindly earnestness.

"I ought to know her," said the countess in a strangely sharp tone.

"Certainly. She is the Mother of God in the Passion Play, Anastasia
Gross, the burgomaster's sister."

"Yes, the Mary!" said the countess, and again she remembered how the
two, mother and son, had remained clasped in each other's arms far longer
than seemed to her necessary. What unknown pang was this which now
pierced her heart? "I suppose they are betrothed?" she asked, with
quickened breath.

"Who can tell? We think she loves him, but no one knows Freyer's
feelings!" said Ludwig.

"I don't understand, since you are such intimate friends, why you should
not know!"

"I believe, Countess, if we people of Ammergau have any good quality,
it is discretion. We do not ask even the most intimate friend anything which
he does not confide to us."

Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes in confusion. After a short
struggle she said with deadly sternness and bitterness: "You were right this
morning--the man must be left in his sphere. Come, let us go back!" A
glance from Ludwig's eyes pierced her to the heart. She turned back toward

the village. But Freyer had already seen her and overtook her with the speed
of thought.

"Why, Countess, you here? And"--his eyes, fierce with pain, rested
enquiringly on hers as he perceived their cold expression, "and you were
going to leave me without a word of greeting? Were you ashamed to speak
to the poor peasant who was mowing his grass? Or did my dress shock
you?" He was so perfectly artless that he did not even interpret her
indignation correctly, but attributed it to an entirely different cause. This did
not escape the keen intuition of a woman so thoroughly versed in affairs of
the heart. But when a drop of the venom of jealousy has entered the blood,
it requires some time ere it is absorbed, even though the cause of the
mischief has long been removed. This is an old experience, as well as the
fact that, this process once over, repentance is all the sweeter, love the more
passionate. But the poor simple-hearted peasant, in his artlessness, could
not perceive all this. He was merely ashamed of standing before the
countess in his shirt sleeves and hurriedly endeavored, with trembling
fingers, to fasten his collar which he had opened while at work, baring his
throat and chest. It seemed as if the hot blood could be heard pulsing
against the walls of his arched chest, like the low murmur of the sea. The
labor, the increasing heat of the sun, and the excitement of the countess'
presence had quickened the usually calm flow of his blood till it fairly
seethed in his veins, glowing in roseate life through the ascetic pallor of the
skin, while the swelling veins stood forth in a thousand beautiful waving
lines like springs welling from white stone. Both stood steeped in the fervid
warmth, one absorbing, the other reflecting it.

But with the cruelty of love, which seeks to measure the strength of
responsive passion by the very pain it has the power to inflict, the beautiful
woman curbed the fire kindled in her own pulses and said carelessly: "We
have interrupted your tête-à-tête, we will make amends by retiring."

"Countess!" he exclaimed with a look which seemed to say: "Is it
possible that you can be so unjust! My Mother, Mary, was with me, she
brought her son something to refresh him at his work, why should you
interrupt us?"

The simple words, which to her had so subtle a double meaning,
explained everything and Madeleine von Wildenau felt, with deep
embarrassment, that he understood her and that she must appear very petty
in his eyes.

Ludwig Gross drew out his watch. "Excuse me, it is nine o'clock; I must
go to my drawing-school." He bowed and left them, without shaking hands
with the countess as usual. She felt it as a rebuke, and a voice in her heart
said: "You must become a far better woman ere you are worthy of this
man."

"Would not you like to know Mary? May I introduce her to you?" asked
Freyer, when they were alone.

"Oh, it is not necessary."

"Why, how can you love the son and not care for the mother?"

"She is not your mother," replied the countess.

"And I am not the Christ. Why does the illusion affect me, and not
Mary?"

"Because it was perfect in you, but not in her."

"Then there is still more reason to know her, that her personality may
complete what her personation lacked."

The countess cast a gloomy look at the tall maiden, who meanwhile had
taken the scythe and was doing Freyer's work.

"She seems to be very devoted to you," she said suspiciously.

"Yes, thank Heaven, we are loyal friends."

"I suppose you call each other thou."

"Yes, all the Ammergau people do that, when they have been
schoolmates."

"That is a strange custom. Is it practised by those in both high and low
stations?"

"There are neither high nor low stations among us. We all stand on the
same footing, Countess. The fact that one is richer, another poorer, that one
can do more for education and external appearances than his neighbor
makes no difference with us and, if it did, it would be an honor for me to be
permitted to address Anastasia with the familiar thou, for she and the whole
Gross family are far above me. Even in your sense of the word, Countess,
the burgomaster is an aristocrat, no child of nature like myself, but a man
familiar with social usages and thoroughly well educated."

"Well, then," cried the countess, "why don't you marry the lady, if she
possesses such superior advantages?"

"Marry?" Freyer started back as if instead of Madeleine's beautiful face
he had suddenly beheld some hideous vision, "I have never thought of it!"

"Why not?"

"The Christ wed Mary? The son the mother? No, though we are not what
we represent, that would be impossible. I have become so accustomed to
regard her as my mother that it would seem to me a profanation."

"But next winter, when the Play is over, it will be different."

"And you say this to me, Countess; you, after this morning?" cried
Freyer, with a trembling voice. "Are you in earnest?"

"Certainly. I cannot expect you, for my sake, to neglect older claims
upon your heart!"

"Countess, if I had older claims, would I have spoken to you as I did to-
day, would the events have occurred which happened to-day? Can you
believe such things of me? You are silent? Well, Countess, that may be the
custom in your circle, but not in mine."

"Forgive me, Freyer!" stammered the lady, turning pale.

"Freyer shaded his eyes with his hand as if the sun dazzled him, in order
to conceal his rising tears.

"For what are you looking?" asked the countess, who thought he was
trying to see more distinctly.

He turned his face, eloquent with pain, full toward her. "I was looking to
see where my dove had flown, I can no longer find her. Or was it all a
dream?"

"Freyer!" cried the countess, utterly overwhelmed, slipping her hand
through his arm and resting her head without regard for possible spectators
on his heaving breast. "Joseph, your dove has not flown away, she is here,
take her to your heart again and keep her forever, forever, if you wish."

"Take care, Countess," said Freyer, warningly, "there are people moving
in all directions."

She raised her head. "Will it cause you any harm?" she asked, abashed.

"Not me, but you. I have no one to question me and could only be proud
of your tokens of favor, but consider what would be said in your own circle,
if it were rumored that you had rested your head on a peasant's breast."

"You are no peasant, you are an artist."

"In your eyes, but not in those of the world. Even though we do passably
well in wood-carving and in the Passion Play, so long as we are so poor that
we are compelled to till our fields ourselves, and bring the wood for our
carvings from the forest with our own hands, we shall be ranked as
peasants, and no one will believe that we are anything else. You will be
blamed for having associated with such uncultured people."

"Oh, I will answer for that before the whole world."

"That would avail little, my beloved one, Heaven forbid that I should
ever so far forget myself as to boast of your love before others, or permit
you to do anything which they would misjudge. God alone understands

what we are to each other, and therefore it must remain hidden in His
bosom where no profane eye can desecrate it."

The countess clung closer to him in silent admiration. She remembered
so many annoyances caused by the indiscretions due to the vanity of men
whom she had favored, that this modest delicacy seemed so chivalrous and
lofty that she would fain have fallen at his feet.

"Dove, have I found you again?" he said, gazing into her eyes. "My
sweet, naughty dove! You will never more wound and wrong me so. I feel
that you might break my heart" And pressing her arm lightly to his side, he
raised her hand to his burning lips.

A glow of happiness filled Madeleine von Wildenau's whole being as she
heard the stifled, passionate murmur of love. And as, with every sunbeam,
the centifolia blooms more fully, revealing a new beauty with each opening
petal, so too did the soul of the woman thus illumined by the divine ray of
true love.

"Come," she said suddenly, "take me to the kind creature who so
tenderly ministers to you, perhaps suffers for you. I now feel drawn toward
her and will love her for your sake as your mother, Mary."

"Ah, my child, that is worthy of you! I knew that you were generous and
noble! Come, my Magdalene, I will lead you to Mary."

They walked rapidly to the field where Anastasia was busily working.
The latter, seeing the stranger approach, let down the skirt she had lifted and
adjusted her dress a little, but she received the countess without the least
embarrassment and cordially extended her hand. Her bearing also had a
touch of condescension, which the great lady especially noticed. Anastasia
gazed so calmly and earnestly at her that she lowered her eyes as if unable
to bear the look of this serene soul. The smoothly brushed brown hair, the
soft indistinctly marked brows, the purity of the features, and the virginal
dignity throned on the noble forehead harmonized with the ideal of the
Queen of Heaven which the countess had failed to grasp in the Passion
Play. She was beautiful, faultless from head to foot, yet there was nothing in
her appearance which could arouse the least feeling of jealousy. There was

such spirituality in her whole person--something--the countess could not
describe it in any other way--so expressive of the sober sense of age, that
the beautiful woman was ashamed of her suspicion. She now understood
what Freyer meant when he spoke of the maternal relation existing between
Anastasia and himself. She was the true Madonna, to whom all eyes would
be lifted devoutly, reverently, yet whom no man would desire to press to his
heart. She was probably not much older than the countess, two or three
years at most, but compared with her the great lady, so thoroughly versed in
the ways of the world, was but an immature, impetuous child. The countess
felt this with the secret satisfaction which it affords every woman to
perceive that she is younger than another, and it helped her to endure the
superiority which Anastasia's lofty calmness maintained over her. Nay, she
even accepted the inferior place with a coquettish artlessness which made
her appear all the more youthful. Yet at the very moment she adopted the
childish manner, she secretly felt its reality. She was standing in the
presence of the Mother of God. Womanly nature had never possessed any
charm for her, she had never comprehended it in any form. She had never
admired any of Raphael's Madonnas, not even the Sistine. A woman
interested her only as the object of a man's love for which she might envy
her, the contrary character, the ascetic beauty of an Immaculate was wholly
outside of her sphere. Now, for the first time in her life, she was interested
in a personality of this type, because she suddenly realized that the Virgin
was also the Mother of the Saviour. And as her love for the Christ was first
awakened by her love for Joseph Freyer, her reverence for Mary was first
felt when she thought of her as his mother! Madeleine von Wildenau, so
poor in the treasures of the heart, the woman who had never been a mother,
suddenly felt--even while in the act of playing with practised coquetry the
part of childlike ignorance--under the influence of the man she loved, the
reality in the farce and her heart opened to the sacred, mysterious bond
between the mother and the child. Thus, hour by hour, she grew out of the
captivity of the world and the senses, gently supported and elevated by the
might of that love which reconciles earth and heaven.

She held out one hand to Anastasia, the other to Freyer. "I, too, would
fain know the dear mother of our Christ!" she said, with that sweet,
submissive grace which the moment had taught her. Freyer's eyes rested

approvingly upon her. She felt as if wings were growing on her shoulders,
she felt that she was beautiful, good, and beloved; earth could give no more.

Anastasia watched the agitated woman with the kindly, searching gaze of
a Sister of Charity. Indeed, her whole appearance recalled that of one of
these ministering spirits, resigned without sentimentality; gentle, yet
energetic; modest, yet impressive.

"I felt a great--" the countess was about to say "admiration," but this was
not true, she admired her now for the first time! She stopped abruptly in the
midst of her sentence, she could utter no stereotyped compliments at this
moment. With quiet dignity, like a princess giving audience, Anastasia came
to her assistance, by skilfully filling up the pause: "So this is your first visit
to Ammergau?"

"Yes."

"Then you have doubtless been very much impressed?"

"Oh, who could remain cold, while witnessing such a spectacle?"

"Yes, is not our Christ perfect?" said Anastasia, smiling proudly. "He
costs people many tears. But even I cannot help weeping, and I have played
it with him thirty times." She passed her hand across his brow with a tender,
maternal caress, as if she wished to console him for all his sufferings. "Does
it not seem as if we saw the Redeemer Himself?"

The countess watched her with increasing sympathy. "You have a
beautiful soul! Your friend was right, people should know you to receive the
full impression of Mary."

"Yes, I play it too badly," replied Anastasia, whose native modesty
prevented her recognition of the flattery conveyed in the countess' words.

"No--badly is not the word. But the delicate shadings of the feminine
nature are lost in the vast space," the other explained.

"It may be so," replied Anastasia, simply. "But that is of no importance;
no matter how we others might play--he would sustain the whole."

"And your brother, Anastasia, and all the rest--do you forget them?" said
Freyer, rebukingly.

"Yes, dear Anastasia." The countess took Freyer's hand. "I have given my
soul into the keeping of this Christ--but your brother's performance is also a
masterpiece! It seems to me that you are unjust to him. And also to Pilate,
whom I admired, the apostles and high-priests."

"Perhaps so. I don't know how the others act--" said Mary with an
honesty that was fairly sublime. "I see only him, and when he is not on the
stage I care nothing for the rest of the performance. It is because I am his
mother: to a mother the son is beyond everything else," she added, calmly.

The countess looked at her in astonishment. Was it possible that a
woman could love in this way? Yet there was no doubt of it. Had even a
shadow of longing to be united to the man she loved rested on the soul of
this girl, she could not have had thus crystalline transparency and absolute
freedom from embarrassment.

These Madonnas are happy beings! she thought, yet she did not envy this
calm peace.

Drawing off her long glove with much difficulty, she took a ring from
her finger. "Please accept this from me as a token of the secret bond which
unites us in love for--your son! We will be good friends."

"With all my heart!" said Anastasia in delight, holding out her sunburnt
finger to receive the gift. "What will my brother say when I come home
with such a present?" She gratefully kissed the donor's hand. "You are too
kind, Countess--I don't know how I deserve it." She stooped and lifted her
jug. "I must go home now to help my sister-in-law. You will visit us, won't
you? My brother will be so pleased."

"Very gladly--if you will allow me," replied the lady, smiling.

"I beg you to do so!" said Anastasia with ready tact. Then with noble
dignity, she moved away across the fields, waving her hand from the
distance to the couple she had left behind, as if to say: "Be happy!"

CHAPTER XII.
BRIDAL TORCHES

"Magdalene--Wife--Angel--what shall I call you?" cried Freyer,
extending his arms. "Oh, if only we were not in the open fields, that I might
press you to my heart and thank you for being so kind--so generous and so
kind."

"Does your heart at last yearn for me? Then let us come into the forest,
where no one is watching us save holy nature. Take me up one of the
mountains. Will you? Can you? Will not your hay spoil?"

"Let it spoil, what does that matter? But first you must allow me to go
home to put on garments more suitable for your society."

"No, that will be too late! Remain as you are--you are handsome in any
clothes," she whispered, blushing faintly, like a girl, while she lowered her
eyes from the kingly figure to the ground. A happy smile flitted over her
face. Stooping, she picked up the jacket which he had removed while doing
his work.

"And you--are you equipped for mountain climbing?"

"Oh, we will not go far. Not farther than we can go and return in time for
dinner."

"Come, then. If matters come to the worst, I will take my dove on my
shoulder and carry her when she can walk no farther."

"Oh, happy freedom!" cried the countess, joyously! "To wander through
the woods, like two children in a fairy tale, enchanted by some wicked fairy
and unable to appear again until after a thousand years! Oh, poetry of
childhood--for the first time you smile upon me in all your radiance. Come,

let us hasten--it is so beautiful that I can hardly believe it. I shall not, until
we are there."

She flew rather than walked by his side. "My dove--suppose that we
were enchanted and forced to remain in the forest together a thousand
years?"

"Let us try it!" she whispered, fixing her eyes on his till he murmured,
panting for breath: "I believe--the spell is beginning to work." And his eyes
glowed with a gloomy fire as he murmured, watching her: "Who knows
whether I am not harboring the Lorelei herself, who is luring me into her
kingdom to destroy me!"

"What do you know of the Lorelei?"

Freyer stopped. "Do you suppose I read nothing? What else should I do
during the long evenings, when wearied by my work, I am resting at
home?"

"Really?" she asked absently, drawing him forward.

"Do you suppose I could understand a woman like you if I had not
educated myself a little? Alas, we cannot accomplish much when the proper
foundation is lacking. The untrained memory retains nothing firmly except
what passes instantly into flesh and blood, the perception of life as it is
reflected to us from the mirror of art. But even this reflection is sometimes
distorted and confuses our natural thoughts and feelings. Alas, dear one, a
person who has learned nothing correctly, and yet knows the yearning for
something higher, without being able to satisfy it--is like a lost soul that
never attains the goal for which it longs."

"My poor friend, I do know that feeling--to a certain extent it is the same
with us women. We, too, have the yearning for education, and finally attain
only a defective amount of knowledge! But, by way of compensation,
individuality, directness, intuitiveness are developed all the more fully. You
did not need to know anything--your influence is exerted through your
personality; as such you are great. All knowledge comes from man, and is
attainable by him--the divine gift of individuality can neither be gained, nor

bestowed, any more than intuition! What is all the logic of reflecting reason
compared with the gift of intuition, which enabled you to assume the part of
a God? Is not that a greater marvel than the hard-won result of systematic
study at the desk?"

"You are a kind comforter!" said Freyer.

"Thinking makes people old!" she continued. "It has aged the human
race, too.--Nature, simplicity, love must restore its youth! In them is direct
contact with the deity; in civilization only an indirect one. Fortunately for
me, I have put my lips to their spring. Oh, eternal fountain of human nature,
I drink from you with eager draughts."

They had entered the forest--the tree-tops rustled high above their heads
and at their feet rippled a mountain stream. Madeleine von Wildenau was
silent--her heart rested on her friend's broad breast, heaving with the rapid
throbbing of his heart, her supple figure had sunk wearily down by his side.
"Say no more--not a word is needed here." The deep gloom of the woods
surrounded them--a sacred stillness and solitude. "On every height there
dwells repose!" echoed in soft melody above her head, the marvellous
Rubinstein-Goethe song. There was no human voice, it seemed like a mere
breath from the distance of a dream--like the wind sweeping over the
chords of the cymbal hung by Lenau's gypsy on a tree, scarcely audible,
already dying away again. Her ear had caught the notes of that Æolian harp
once before: she knew them again; on the cross--with the words: "Into thy
hands I commend my spirit." And sweet as the voice which spoke at that
time was now the tenor that softly, softly hushed the restless spirit of the
worldling to slumber. "Wait; soon, soon--" and then the notes gradually rose
till the whole buzzing, singing woodland choir seemed to join in the words:
"Thou, too, shalt soon rest."

The mysterious sound came from the depths of the great heart on which
she rested, as if the soul had quitted the body a few moments and now,
returning, was revealing with sweet lamentation what it had beheld in the
invisible world.

"Are you weeping?" he asked tenderly, kissing the curls which clustered
round her forehead: "My child."

"Oh, when you utter that word, I have a feeling which I never
experienced before. Yes, I am, I wish to be a child in your hands. Only
those who have ever tasted the delight of casting the burden of their own
egoism upon any altar, whether it be religion or love--yielding themselves
up, becoming absorbed in another, higher power--only those can know my
emotions when I lean on your breast and you call me your child! Thus
released from ourselves, thus free and untrammelled must we feel when we
have stripped off in death the fetters of the body and merged all which is
personal to us in God."

"Heaven has destined you for itself, and you already feel how it is
loosening your fibres and gradually drawing you up out of the soil in which
you are rooted. That is why you wept when I sang that song to you here in
the quiet woodland solitude. Such tears are like the drops the tree weeps,
when a name is cut upon it. At such moments you feel the hand of God
tearing open the bark which the world has formed around your heart, and
the sap wells from the wounded spot. Is it not so?" He gently passed his
hand over her eyes, glittering with unshed tears.

"Ah, noble soul! How you penetrate the depths of my being! What is all
the wit and wisdom of the educated mind, compared with the direct
inspiration of your poetic nature. Freyer, Spring of the earth--Christ, Spring
of humanity! My heart is putting forth its first blossom for you, take it." She
threw herself with closed eyes upon his breast, as if blindly. He clasped her
in a close embrace, holding her a long time silently in his arms. Then he
said softly: "I will accept the beautiful blossom of your heart, my child, but
not for myself." He raised his eyes fervently upward: "Oh, God, Thou hast
opened Thy hand to the beggar, and made him rich that he may sacrifice to
Thee what no king could offer. I thank Thee."

Something laughed above their heads--it was a pair of wild-doves,
cooing in the green tent over them.

"Do you know why they are laughing?" asked the countess, in an altered
tone. "They are laughing at us!"

"Magdalena!"

"Yes! They are laughing at the self-tormenting doubt of God's goodness.
Look around you, see the torrent foaming, and the blue gentians drinking its
spray, see the fruit-laden hazel, the sacred tree which sheltered your
childhood; see the bilberries at your feet, all the intoxicating growth and
movement of nature, and then ask yourself whether the God who created all
this warm, sunny life is a God who only takes--not gives. Do you believe
He would have prepared for us this Spring of love, that we may let its
blossoms wither on the cold altar of duty or of prejudice? No--take what He
bestows--and do not question."

"Do not lead me into temptation, Magdalena!" he gently entreated. "I
told you this morning that you do not know what you are unloosening."

He stood before her as if transfigured, his eyes glowed with the sombre
fire which had flashed in them a moment early that morning, a rustling like
eagle's pinions ran through the forest--Jupiter was approaching in human
form.

The beautiful woman sat down on a log with her hands clasped in her
lap.

"A man like me loves but once, but with his whole being. I demand
nothing--but what is given to me is given wholly, or not at all; for if I once
have it, I will never give it up save with my life!

"Not long since a stranger came here, who sang the song of the Assras,
who die when they love. I believe I am of their race. Woman, do not toy, do
not trifle with me! For know--I love you with the fatal love of those
'Assras.'"

Madeleine von Wildenau trembled with delight.

"If I once touch your lips, the barrier between us will have fallen! Will
you forgive me if the flood-tide of feeling sweeps me away till I forget who
you are and what a gulf divides the Countess Wildenau from the low-born
peasant?"

"Oh, that you can remind me of it--in this hour--!" cried the countess,
with sorrowful reproach.

He looked almost threateningly into her eyes. The dark locks around his
head seemed to stir like the bristling mane of a lion: "Woman, you do not
know me! If you deceive me, you will betray the most sacred emotion ever
felt by mortal man--and it will be terribly avenged. Then the flame you are
kindling will consume either you or me, or both. You see that I am now a
different man. Formerly you have beheld me only when curbed by the
victorious power of my holy task. You have conjured up the spirits, now
they can no longer be held in thrall--will you not be terrified by the might of
a passion which is unknown to you people of the world, with your calm
self-control?"

"I, terrified by you?" cried the proud woman in a tone of exultant
rapture. "Oh, this is power, this is the very breath of the gods. Should I fear
amid the element for which I longed--which was revealed to me in my own
breast? Does the flame fear the fire? The Titaness dread the Titan? Ah,
Zeus, hurl thy thunderbolt, and let the forest blaze as the victorious torch of
nature at last released from her long bondage."

He sat down by her side, his fiery breath fanning her cheek. "Then you
will try it, will give me the kiss I dared not take to-day?"

"Yes."

"But it will be a betrothal kiss."

"Yes."

He opened his arms, and as a black moth settles upon a fragrant tea-rose,
hovering on its velvet wings above the dewy calyx, he bent his head to hers,
shadowing her with his dark locks and pressed his first kiss upon Madeleine
von Wildenau's quivering lips.

But such moments tempt the gods themselves, and Jupiter hovered over
the pair, full of wrath, for he envied the Christian mortal the beautiful
woman. He had heard her laughingly challenge him in the midst of the joy

she had stolen from the gods, and the heavens darkened, the hurricane
saddled the steeds of the storm, awaiting his beck, and down flashed the fire
from the sky--a shrill cry rent the air, the highest tree in the forest was cleft
asunder and the bridal torch lighted by Jupiter blazed aloft.

"The gods are averse to it," said Freyer, gloomily. "Defy them!" cried the
countess, starting up; "they are powerless--we are in the hands of a Higher
Ruler."

"Woman, you do not belong to this world, or you have no nerves which
can tremble."

"Tremble?" She laughed happily. "Tremble, by your side?" Then,
nestling closer still, she murmured: "I am as cowardly as ever woman was,
but where I love I have the courage to defy death. Even were I to fall now
beneath a thunderbolt, could I have a fairer death than at this moment? You
would willingly die for your Christ--and I for mine."

"Well then, come, you noble woman, that I may shield you as well as I
can! Now we shall see whether God is with us! I defy the elements!" He
proudly clasped the object of his love in his arms and bore her firmly on
through the chaos into which the whole forest had fallen. The tempest,
howling fiercely, burst its way through the woods. The boughs snapped, the
birds were hurled about helplessly. The destroying element seemed to come
from both heights and depths at the same time, for it shook the earth and
tore the roots of trees from the ground till the lofty trunks fell shattered and,
rolling down the mountain, swept everything with them in the sudden ruin.
With fiendish thirst for battle the fiery sword flamed from the sky amid the
uproar, dealing thrust after thrust and blow after blow--while here and there
scarlet tongues of flame shot hissing upward through the dry branches.

A torrent of rain now dashed from the clouds but without quenching the
flames, whose smoke was pressed down into the tree-tops, closely
interlaced by the tempest. Like a gigantic black serpent, it rolled its coils
from every direction, stifling, suffocating with the glowing breath of the
forest conflagration, and the undulating cloud body bore with it in
glittering, flashing sparks, millions of burning pine needles.

"Well, soul of fire, is the heat fierce enough for you now?" asked Freyer,
pressing the beautiful woman closer to his side to shield her with his own
body: "Are you content now?"

"Yes," she said, gasping for breath, and the eyes of both met, as if they
felt only the fire in their own hearts and had blended this with the external
element into a single sea of flame.

Nearer, closer drew the fire in ever narrowing circles around the defiant
pair, more and more sultry became the path, brighter grew the hissing blaze
through which they were compelled to force their way. Now on the left,
now on the right, the red-eyed conflagration confronted them amid the
clouds of smoke and flame, half stifled by the descending floods of rain, yet
pouring from its open jaws hot, scorching steam--fatal to laboring human
chests--and obliged the fugitives to turn back in search of some new
opening for escape.

"If the rain ceases, we are lost!" said the countess with the utmost
calmness. "Then the fire will be sole ruler."

Freyer made no reply. Steadily, unflinchingly, he struggled on, grasping
with the strength of a Titan the falling boughs which threatened the
countess' life, shielding with both arms her uncovered head from the flying
sparks, and ever and anon, sprinkling her hair and garments from some
bubbling spring. The water in the brooks was already warm. Throngs of
animals fleeing from the flames surrounded them, and birds with scorched
wings fell at their feet. It was no longer possible to go down, the fire was
raging below them. They were compelled to climb up the mountain and
seek the summit.

"Only have courage--forward!" were Freyer's sole words. And upward
they toiled--through the pathless woods, through underbrush and thickets,
over roots of trees, rolling stones, and rocks, never pausing, never taking
breath, for the flames were close at their heels, threatening them with their
fiendish embrace. Where the path was too toilsome, Freyer lifted the
woman he loved in his arms and bore her over the rough places.

At last the woods grew thinner, the boundary of the flames was passed,
they had reached the top--were saved. The neighing steeds of the wind
received them on the barren height and strove to hurl them back into the
fiery grave, but Freyer's towering form resisted their assault and, with
powerless fury, they tore away the rocks on the right and left and rolled
them thundering down into the depths below. The water pouring from the
clouds drenched the lovers like a billow from the sea, beating into their
eyes, mouths, and ears till, blinded and deafened, they were obliged to
grope their way along the cliff. The garments of the beautiful Madeleine
von Wildenau hung around her in tatters, heavy as lead, her hair was
loosened, dripping and dishevelled, she was trembling from head to foot
with cold in the icy wind and rain here on the heights, after the heat and
terror below in the smouldering thicket.

"I know where there is a herder's hut, I'll take you to it. Cling closely to
me, we must climb still higher."

They silently continued the ascent.

The countess staggered with fatigue. Freyer lifted her again in his arms,
and, by almost superhuman exertion, bore her up the last steep ascent to the
hut. It was empty. He placed the exhausted woman on the herder's straw
pallet, where she sank fainting. When she regained her consciousness she
was supported in Freyer's arms, and her face was wet with his tears. She
gazed at him as if waking to the reality of some beautiful dream. "Is it really
you?" she asked, with such sweet childlike happiness, as she threw her arms
around him, that the strong man's brain and heart reeled as if his senses
were failing.

"You are alive, you are safe?" He could say no more. He kissed her
dripping garments her feet, and tenderly examined her beautiful limbs to
assure himself that she had received no injury. "Thank Heaven!" he cried
joyously, amid his tears, "you are safe!" Then, half staggering, he rose:
"Now, in the presence of the deadly peril we have just escaped, tell me
whether you really love me, tell me whether you are mine, wholly mine! Or
hurl me down into the blazing forest--it would be more merciful, by
Heaven! than to deceive me."

"Joseph!" cried the countess, clinging passionately to him. "Can you ask
that--now?"

"Alas! I cannot understand how a poor ignorant man like me can win the
love of such a woman. What can you love, save the illusion of the Christ,
and when that has vanished--what remains?"

"The divine, the real love!" replied the countess with a lofty expression.

"Oh, I believe that you are sincere. But if you have deceived yourself, if
you should ever perceive that you have overestimated me--ah, it would be
far better for me to be lying down below amid the flames than to experience
that. There is still time--consider well, and say--what shall it be?"

"Consider?" replied the countess, drawing his head down to hers. "Tell
the torrent to consider ere it plunges over the cliff, to dissolve into spray in
the leap. Tell the flower to consider ere it opens to the sunbeam which will
consume it! Will you be more petty than they? What is there to consider,
when a mighty impulse powerfully constrains us? Is not this moment worth
risking the whole life without asking: 'What is to come of it?' Ah, then--
then, I have been mistaken in you and it will be better for us to part while
there is yet time."

"Oh--enchantress! You are right, I no longer know myself! Part, now?
No, it is too late, I am yours, body and soul. Be it so, then, I will barter my
life for this moment, and no longer doubt, for I can do nothing else."

Sinking on his knees before her, he buried his face in her lap. Madeleine
von Wildenau embraced him with unspeakable tenderness, yet she felt the
burden of a heavy responsibility resting upon her, for she now realized--that
she was his destiny. She had what she desired, his soul, his heart, his life--
nay, had he possessed immortality, he would have sacrificed that, too, for
her sake. But now the "God" had become human--the choice was made.
And, with a secret tear she gazed upon the husk of the beautiful illusion
which had vanished.

"What is the matter?" he asked suddenly, raising his head and gazing into
her eyes with anxious foreboding. "You have grown cold."

"No, only sad."

"And why?"

"Alas! I do not know! Nothing in this world can be quite perfect." She
drew him tenderly toward her. "This is one of those moments in which the
highest happiness becomes pain. The fury of the elements could not harm
us, but it is a silent, stealing sorrow, which will appease the envy of the
gods for unprecedented earthly bliss: Mourning for my Christus."

Freyer uttered a cry of anguish and starting up, covered his face with
both hands. "Oh, that you are forced to remind me of it!" He rushed out of
the hut.

What did this mean. The beautiful mistress of his heart felt as if she had
deceived herself when she believed him to be exclusively her own, as if
there was something in the man over which she had no power! Filled with
vague terror, she followed him. He stood leaning against the hut as if in a
dream and did not lift his eyes. The sound of alarm-bells and the rattle of
fire-arms echoed from the valley. The rain had ceased, and columns of
flame were now rising high into the air, forming a crimson canopy above
the trees in the forest. It was a wild scene, this glowing sea of fire into
which tree after tree gradually vanished, the air quivering with the crash of
the falling boughs, from which rose a shower of sparks, and a crowd of
shrieking birds eddying amid the flames. Joseph Freyer did not heed it. The
countess approached almost timidly. "Joseph--have I offended you?"

"No, my child, on the contrary! When I reminded you to-day of the
obligations of your rank, you were angry with me, but I thank you for
having remembered what I forgot for your sake."

"Well. But, spite of the warning, I was not ashamed of you and did not
disown you before the Countess Wildenau! But you, Joseph, are ashamed of
me in the presence of Christ!"

He gazed keenly, sorrowfully at her. "I ashamed of you, I deny you in the
presence of my Redeemer, who is also yours? I deny you, because I am
forced to confess to Him that I love you beyond everything else--nay,

perhaps more than I do Him? Oh, my dearest, how little you know me! May
the day never come which will prove which of us will first deny the other,
and may you never be forced to weep the tears which Peter shed when the
cock crowed for the third time."

She sank upon his breast. "No, my beloved, that will never be! In the
hour when that was possible, you might despise me."

He kissed her forehead tenderly. "I should not do that--any more than
Christ despised Peter. You are a child of the world, could treachery to me be
charged against you if the strong man, the disciple of Christ, was pardoned
for treason to the holiest."

"Oh, my angel! It would be treason to the 'holiest,'" said the countess
with deep emotion, "if I could deny you!"

"Why, for Heaven's sake, Herr Freyer," shouted a voice, and the
herdsman came bounding down the mountain side: "Can you stand there so
quietly--amid this destruction?" The words died away in the distance.

"The man is right," said the countess in a startled tone, "we are forgetting
everything around us. Whoever has hands must help. Go--leave me alone
here and follow the herdsman."

"There is no hope of extinguishing the fire, the wood is lost!" replied
Freyer, indifferently. "It is fortunate that it is an isolated piece of land, so
the flames cannot spread."

"But, Good Heavens, at least try to save what can yet be secured--that is
only neighborly duty."

"I shall not leave you, happen what may."

"But I am safe, and perhaps some poor man's all, is burning below."

"What does it matter, in this hour?"

"What does it matter?" the countess indignantly exclaimed. "Joseph, I do
not understand you! Have you so little feeling for the distress of your fellow

men--and yet play the Christ?"

Freyer gazed at the destruction with a strange expression--his noble
figure towered proudly aloft against the gloomy, cloud-veiled sky. Smiling
calmly, he held out his hand to the woman he loved and drew her tenderly
to his breast: "Do not upbraid me, my dove--the wood was mine."

CHAPTER XIII.
BANISHED FROM EDEN

Silence reigned on the height. The winds had died away, the clouds were
scattering swiftly, like an army of ghosts. The embers of the wood below
crackled softly. The trunks had all been gnawed to the roots by the fiery
tooth of the flames. It was like a churchyard full of clumsy black crosses
and grave-stones on which the souls danced to and fro like will-o'-the-
wisps.

The countess rested silently on Freyer's breast. When he said: "The wood
was mine!" she had thrown herself, unable to utter a word, into his arms--
and had since remained clasped in his embrace in silent, perfect peace.

Now the misty veil, growing lighter and more transparent, at last drifted
entirely away, and the blue sky once more arched above the earth in a
majestic dome. Here and there sunbeams darted through the melting cloud-
rack and suddenly, as though the gates of heaven had opened, a double
rainbow, radiant in seven-hued majesty, spanned the vault above them in
matchless beauty.

Freyer bade the countess look up. And when she perceived the exquisite
miracle of the air, with her lover in the midst--encompassed by it, she raised
her head and extended her arms like the bride awaiting the heavenly
bridegroom. Her eyes rested on him as if dazzled: "Be what you will, man,
seraph, God. Shining one, you must be mine! I will bring you down from
the height of your cross, though you were nailed above with seven-fold
irons. You must be mine. Freyer, hear my vow, hear it, ye surrounding
mountains, hear it, sacred soil below, and thou radiant many-hued bow
which, with the grace of Aphrodite, dost girdle the universe, risen from
chaos. I swear to be your wife, Joseph Freyer, swear it by the God Who has
appeared to me, rising from marvel to marvel, since my eyes first beheld
you."

Freyer, with bowed head, stood trembling before her. He felt as if a
goddess was rolling in her chariot of clouds above him--as if the
glimmering prism above were dissolving and flooding him with a sea of
glittering sparks. "You--my wife?" he faltered, sobbing, then flung himself
face downward before her. "This is too much--too much--"

"You shall be my husband," she murmured, raising him, "let me call you
so now until the priest's hand has united us! When, where, and how this can
be done--I do not yet know! Let the task of deciding be left to hours
devoted to the consideration of earthly things. This is too sacred, it is our
spiritual marriage hour, for in it I have pledged myself to you in spirit and
in truth! Our church is nature, our witnesses are heaven and earth, our
candles the blazing wood below--your little heritage which you sacrificed
for me with a smile! And so I give you my bridal kiss--my husband!"

But Freyer did not return the caress. The old conflict again awoke--the
conflict with his duty as the representative of Christ.

"Oh, God--is it not the tempter whom Thou didst send to Thy own son
on Mt. Hebron that he might show him all the splendors of the world,
saying: 'All shall be thine?' Dare I be faithless to the character of Thy chaste
son, if Thou dost appoint me to undergo the same trial? Dare I be happy,
dare I enjoy, so long as I wear the sacred mask of His sufferings and
sacrifice. Will it not then be a terrible fraud, and dare I enter the presence of
God with this lie upon my conscience? Will He not tear the crown of thorns
from my head and exclaim: 'Juggler--I wish to rise by the pure and saintly--
not by deceivers who feign my sufferings and with deceitful art turn the
holiest things into a farce. Woe betide me, poor, weak mortal that I am--the
trial is too severe. I cannot endure it. Take Thy crown--I place it in Thy
hands again--and will personate the Christ no more."

"Joseph!" exclaimed Countess Wildenau, deeply moved. "Must this be? I
feel your anguish and am stirred as if we were parting from our dearest
possession." She raised her tearful eyes heavenward. "Must the Christ
vanish on the very day I plight my troth to him whom I love as Thy image,
even as Eve must have loved Adam for the sake of his likeness to God. And
must I, like Eve, no longer behold Thy face because I have loved the divine
in mortal form after the manner of mortals? Unhappy doctrine of the fall of

man, which renders the holiest feeling a crime, must we too be driven out of
Paradise, must you stand between us and our happy intercourse with the
deity? Joseph. Do you believe that the Saviour Who came to bring
redemption to the poor human race banished from Eden, will be angry with
you if you represent with a happy loving heart the sacrifice by which He
saved us?"

"I do not know, my beloved, you may be right. Even the time-honored
precepts of our forefathers permit the representative of the Christ to be
married. Yet I think differently! The highest demands claim the loftiest
service! Whoever is permitted to personate the Saviour should have at that
time no other feelings than moved Christ Himself, for truth may not be born
of falsehood."

He drew the weeping woman to his heart. "You know, sweet wife--to
love you and call you mine is a very different thing from the monotonous
commonplace matrimonial happiness which our plain village women can
bestow. You demand the whole being and every power of the soul is
consumed in you."

He clasped her in an embrace so fervent that her breath almost failed, his
eyes blazed with the passionate ardor with which the unchained elements
seize their prey. "Say what you will, it is on your conscience! I can feel
nothing, think of nothing save you! Nay, if they should drive the nails
through my own flesh, I should not heed it, in my ardent yearning for you. I
have struggled long enough, but you have bewitched me with the sweet
promise of becoming my wife--and I am spoiled for personating the Christ.
I am yours, take me! Only fly with me to the farthest corner of the world,
away from the place where I was permitted to feel myself a part of God,
and resigned it for an earthly happiness."

"Come then, my beloved, let us go forth like the pair banished from
Eden, and like them take upon us, for love's sake, our heavy human destiny!
Let us bear it together, and even in exile love and worship, like faithful cast-
off children, the Father who was once so near us!"

"Amen!" said Freyer, clasping the beautiful woman who thus devoted
her life to him in a long, silent embrace. The rainbow above their heads

gradually paled. The radiant splendor faded. The sun was again concealed
by clouds, and the warm azure of the sky was transformed into a chill grey
by the rising mists. The mountain peak lay bare and cheerless, the earth was
rent and ravaged, nothing was visible save rough rubble and colorless
heather. An icy fog rose slowly, gathering more and more densely around
them. Nothing could be seen save the sterile soil of the naked ridge on
which stood the two lonely outcasts from Eden. The gates of their dream
paradise had closed behind them, the spell was broken, and in silent
submission they moved down the hard, stony path to reality, the cruel
uncertainty of human destiny.

CHAPTER XIV.
PIETA

Twilight was gathering when the pair reached the valley.

The Passion Theatre loomed like a vast shadow by the roadside, and
both, as if moved by the same impulse, turned toward it.

Freyer, drawing a key from his pocket, opened the door leading to the
stage. "Shall we take leave of it?" he said.

"Take leave!"

The countess said no more. She knew that the success of the rest of the
performances depended solely upon him--and it burdened her soul like a
heavy reproach. Yet she did not tell him so, for hers he must be--at any cost.

The strength of her passion swept her on to her robbery of the cross, as
the wind bears away the leaf it has stripped from the tree.

They entered the property room. There stood the stake, there lay the
scourges which lacerated the sacred body. The spear that pierced his heart
was leaning in a corner.

Madeleine von Wildenau gazed around her with a feeling of dread.
Freyer had lighted a lamp. Something close beside it flashed, sending its
rays far through the dim space. It was the cup, the communion cup! Freyer
touched it with a trembling hand: "Farewell! I shall never offer you to any
one again! May all blessings flow from you! Happy the hand which scatters
them over the world and my beloved Ammergau."

He kissed the brim of the goblet, and a tear fell into it, but it glittered
with the same unshadowed radiance. Freyer turned away, and his eyes
wandered over the other beloved trophies.

There lay the reed sceptre broken on the floor.

The countess shuddered at the sight. A strange melancholy stole over her,
and tears filled her eyes.

"My sceptre of reeds--broken--in the dust!" said Freyer, his voice
tremulous with an emotion which forced an answering echo in Madeleine
von Wildenau's soul. He raised the fragments, gazing at them long and
mournfully. "Aye, the sad symbol speaks the truth--my strength is broken,
my sovereignty vanished."

A terrible dread overpowered the countess and she fondly clasped the
man she loved, as a princess might press to her heart her dethroned
husband, grieving amid the ruins of his power. "You will still remain king in
my heart!" she said, consolingly, amid her tears.

"You must now be everything to me, my loved one. In you is my
Heaven, my justification in the presence of God. Hold me closely, firmly,
for you must lift me in your arms out of this constant torture by the
redeeming power of love." He rested his head wearily on hers, and she
gladly supported the precious burden. She felt at that moment that she had
the power to lift him from Hades, that the love in her heart was strong
enough to win Heaven for him and herself.

"Womanly nature is drawing us together!" She clung to him, so absorbed
in blissful melancholy that his soul thrilled with an emotion never
experienced before. Their lips now met in a kiss as pure as if all earthly
things were at an end and their rising souls were greeting each other in a
loftier sphere.

"That was an angel's kiss!" said Freyer with a sigh, while the air around
the stake seemed to quiver with the rustling of angels' wings, the chains
which bound him to it for the scourging to clank as though some invisible
hand had flung one end around the feet of the fugitives, to bind them
forever to the place of the cross.

"Come, I have one more thing to do." He took the lamp from the table
and went into the dressing-room.

There hung the raiment in which a God revealed Himself to mortal eyes-
-the ample garments stirred mysteriously in the draught from the open door.
A glimmering white figure seemed to be soaring upward in one corner--it
was the Resurrection robe. Inflated by the wind, it floated with a ghost-like
movement, while the man divested of his divinity stood with clasped hands
and drooping head--to say farewell.

When a mortal strips off his earthly husk he knows that he will exchange
it for a brighter one! Here a mortal was stripping off his robe of light and
returning to the oppressive form of human imperfection. This, too, was a
death agony.

The countess clung to him tenderly. "Have you forgotten me?"

He threw his arm around her. "Why, sweet one?"

"I mean," she said, with childlike grace, "that if you thought of me, you
could not be so sad."

"My child, I forget you at the moment I am resigning Heaven for your
sake. You do not ask that seriously. As for the pain, let me endure it--for if I
could do this with a light heart, would the sacrifice be worthy of you? By
the anguish it costs me you must measure the greatness of my love, if you
can."

"I can, for even while I rest upon your heart, while my lips eagerly
inhale your breath, I pine with longing for your lost divinity."

"And no longer love me as you did when I was the Christ. Be frank--it
will come!"

He pressed his hands upon his breast, while his eyes rested mournfully
on the shining robe which seemed to beckon to him from the gloom.

"Oh, what are you saying! You sacrifice for me the greatest possession
which man ever resigned for woman; the illusion of deity--and I am to
punish you for the renunciation by loving you less? Joseph, what you give

me, no king can bestow. Crowns have been sacrificed for a woman's sake,
crowns of gold--but never one like this!"

"My wife!" he murmured in sweet, mournful tones, while his dark eyes
searched hers till her very soul swooned under the power of the look.

She clasped her hands upon his breast. "Will you grant me one favor?"

"If I can."

"Ah, then, appear to me once more as the Christ. I will go out upon the
stage. Throw the sacred robe over you--let me see Him once more, clasp
His knees--let me take farewell, an eternal farewell of the departing One."

"My child, that would be a sin! Are you again forgetting what you
yourself perceived this morning with prescient grief--that I am a man? Dare
I continue the sacred character outside of the play? That would be working
wrong under the mask of my Saviour."

"No, it would be no wrong to satisfy the longing for His face. I will not
touch you, only once more, for the last time show my wondering eyes the
sublime figure and let the soul pour forth all the anguish of parting to the
vanishing God."

"My wife, where is your error carrying you! Did the God-Man I
personated vanish because I stripped off His mask? Poor wife, the anguish
which now masters you is remorse for having in your sweet womanly
weakness destroyed the pious illusion and never rested until you made the
imaginary God a man. Oh, Magdalena, how far you still are from the goal
gained by your predecessor. Come, I will satisfy your longing; I will lead
you where you will perceive that He is everywhere, if we really seek Him,
that the form alone is perishable. He is imperishable." Then gently raising
her, he tenderly repeated: "Come. Trust me and follow me." Casting one
more sorrowful glance around him, he took from the table the crown of
thorns, extinguished the lamp, and with a steady arm guided the weeping
woman through the darkness. Outside of the building the stars were shining
brightly, the road was distinctly visible. The countess unresistingly
accompanied him. He turned toward the village and they walked swiftly

through the silent streets. At last the church rose, dark and solemn, before
them. He led her in. A holy-water font stood at the entrance, and, pausing,
he sprinkled her with the water. Then they entered. The church was dark.
No light illumined it save the trembling rays of the ever-burning lamp and
two candles flickering low in their sockets before an image of the Madonna
in a remote corner. They were obliged to grope their way forward slowly
amid the wavering shadows. At the left of the entrance stood a "Pieta." It
was a group almost life-size, carved from wood. The crucified Saviour in
the Madonna's lap. Mary Magdalene was supporting his left hand, raising it
slightly, while John stood at the Saviour's feet. The whole had been created
by an artist's hand with touching realism. The expression of anguish in the
Saviour's face was very affecting. Before the group stood a priedieu on
which lay several withered wreaths.

The countess' heart quivered; he was leading her there! So this was to be
the compensation for the living image? Mere dead wood?

Freyer drew her gently down upon the priedieu. "Here, my child, learn to
seek him here, and when you have once found Him, you will never lose
Him more. Lay your hands devoutly on the apparently lifeless breast and
you will feel the heart within throbbing, as in mine--only try."

"Alas, I cannot, it will be a falsehood if I do."

"What, that a falsehood, and I--was I the Christ?"

"I could imagine it!"

"Because I breathed? Ah, the breath of the deity can swell more than a
human breast, sister, and you will hear it! Collect your thoughts--and pray!"

His whisper grew fainter, the silence about her more solemn. "I cannot
pray; I never have prayed," she lamented, "and surely not to lifeless wood."

"Only try--for my sake," he urged gently, as if addressing a restless child,
which ought to go to sleep and will not.

"Yes; but stay with me," she pleaded like a child, clinging to his arm.

"I will stay," he said, kneeling by her side.

"Teach me to pray as you do," she entreated, raising her delicate hands to
him. He clasped them in his, and she felt as if the world could do her no
further harm, that her soul, her life, lay in his firm hands.

The warmth emanating from him became in her a devout fervor. The
pulses of ardent piety throbbing in his finger-tips seemed to communicate a
wave-like motion to the surrounding air, which imparted to everything
which hitherto had been dead and rigid, an undulating movement that lent it
a faint, vibrating life.

Something stirred, breathed, murmured before and above her. There was
a rustling among the withered leaves of the garlands at the foot of the Pieta,
invisible feet glided through the church and ascended the steps of the high
altar; high up the vaulted dome rose a murmur which wandered to the folds
of the funeral banner, hanging above, passing from pillar to pillar, from arch
to arch, in ghostly echoes which the listening ear heard with secret terror,
the language of the silence. And the burning eyes beheld the motionless
forms begin to stir. The contours of the figures slowly changed in the
uncertain, flickering light, the shadows glided and swung to and fro. The
Saviour's lips opened, then slowly closed, the kneeling woman touched the
rigid limbs and laid her fevered fingers on the wounded breast. The other
hand rested in Freyer's. A chain was thus formed between the three, which
thrilled and warmed the wood with the circulating stream of the hot blood.
It was no longer a foreign substance--it was the heart, the poor pierced heart
of their beloved, divine friend. It throbbed, suffered, bled. More and more
distinctly the chest rose and fell with the regular breathing. It was the
creative breath of the deity, which works in the conscious and unconscious
object, animating even soulless matter. The arm supported by Mary
Magdalene swayed to and fro, the fingers of the hand moved gently. The
poor pierced hand--it seemed as if it were trying to move toward the
countess, as if it were pleading, "Cool my pain."

Urged by an inexplicable impulse, the countess warmed the stiff, slender
fingers in her own. She fancied that it was giving relief. Higher and higher
swelled the tide of feeling in her heart until it overflowed--and--she knew
not how, she had risen and pressed a kiss upon the wounds in the poor little

hand, a kiss of the sweetest, most sacred piety. She felt as if she were
standing by a beloved corpse whose mute lips we seek, though they no
longer feel.

She could not help it, and bending down again the rosy lips of the young
widow rested on the pale half-parted ones of the statue. But the lips
breathed, a cool, pure breath issued from them, and the rigid form grew
more pliant beneath the sorrowful caress, as though it felt the reconciling
pain of the penitent human soul. But the divine fire which was to purify this
soul, blazed far beyond its boundaries in this first ardor. Overpowered by a
wild fervor, she flung herself on her knees and adjured the God whose
breath she had drunk in that kiss, to hear her. The friend praying at her side
was forgotten, the world had vanished, every law of reason was annihilated,
all knowledge was out of her mind--every hard-won conquest of human
empiricism was effaced. From the heights and from the depths it came with
rustling pinions, bearing the soul away on the flood-tide of mercy. The
miracle was approaching--in unimagined majesty.

Thousands of years vanished, eternity dawned in that one moment. All
that was and is, was not and is not--past, present, and future, were blended
and melted into a single breath beyond the boundaries of the natural life.

"If it is Thou, if Thou dost live, look at me," she had cried with ardent
aspiration, and, lo!--was it shadow or imagination?--the eyes opened and
two large dark pupils were fixed upon her, then the lids closed for an instant
to open again The countess gazed more and more earnestly; it was distinct,
unmistakable. A shudder ran through her veins as, in a burning fever, the
limbs tremble with a sudden chill. She tried to meet the look, but spite of
the tension in every nerve, the effort was futile. It was too overpowering; it
was the gaze of a God. Dread and rapture were contending for the mastery.
Doubtless she said to herself, "It is not outside of you, but within you."
Once more she ventured to glance at the mysterious apparition, but the eyes
were fixed steadily upon her. Terror overpowered her. The chord of the
possible snapped and she sank half senseless on the steps of the altar, while
the miracle closed its golden wings above her.

CHAPTER XV.
THE CROWING OF THE COCK

A loud step roused the rapt enthusiast from her visions. The sacristan
was passing through the church, extinguishing the candles which,
meanwhile, had burned down in their sockets before the Madonna in the
distant corner.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you," he said; "but I wanted to close
the church. There is plenty of time, however. Shall I leave a candle? It will
be too dark; the lamp alone does not give sufficient light."

"I thank you," replied Freyer, more thoughtful than the countess, who,
unable to control herself, remained on her knees with her face buried in her
hands.

"I will lock the church when we leave it and bring you the key," Freyer
added, and the sacristan was satisfied. The imperious high priest withdrew
silently and modestly, that he might not disturb the prayers of the man
whom he sentenced to death every week with such fury.

The lovers were again alone, but the door remained open. The shrill
crowing of a cock suddenly echoed through the stillness from the yard of
the neighboring parsonage. The countess started up. Her eyes were
painfully dazzled by the light of the wax candle so close at hand. Before
her, the face smeared with shining varnish, lay the wooden Christ, hard and
cold in its carven bareness and rigidity. The pale-blue painted eyes gazed
with the traditional mournfulness upon the ground.

"What startled you just now?" asked Freyer.

"I don't know whether it was a miracle or a shadow, which created the
illusion, but I would have sworn that the statue moved its lids and looked at
me."

"Be it what it might, it was still a miracle," said Freyer. "If the finger of
God can paint the Saviour's eyes to the excited vision from the wave of
blood set in motion by the pulsation of our hearts, or from the shadow cast
by a smoking candle, is that any less wonderful than if the stiff lids had
really moved?"

The countess breathed a long sigh of relief; "Yes, you are right. That is
the power which, as you say, can do more than swell a human breast, it can
make, for the yearning soul, a heart throb even in a Christ carved from
wood. Even if what I have just experienced could have been done by
lifeless matter, the power which brought us together was divine, and no one
living could have resisted it. Lay aside your crown of thorns trustfully and
without remorse, you have accomplished your mission, you have saved the
soul for which God destined you, it was His will, and who among us could
resist Him?"

Freyer raised the crown of thorns, which he still held, to his lips, kissed
it, and laid it at the feet of the Pieta: "Lord, Thy will be done, in so far as it
is Thy will. And if it is not, forgive the error."

"It is no error, I understand God's purpose better. He has sent me His
image in you and given it to me in an attainable human form, that I may
learn through it to do my duty to the prototype. To the feeble power of the
novice in faith. He graciously adds an earthly guide. Oh, He is good and
merciful!"

She raised Freyer from his knees: "Come, thou God-given one, that I
may fulfil the sweetest duty ever imposed on any mortal, that of loving you
and making you happy. God and His holy will be praised."

"And will you no longer grieve for the lost Christ?"

"No, for you were right. He is everywhere!"

"In God's name then, come and obey the impulse of your heart, even
though I perish."

"Can you speak so to-day, Joseph?"

"To-day especially. Would you not just now have sworn to the truth of an
illusion conjured up by a shadow? And were you not disappointed when the
light came and the spell vanished? The time will come when you will see
me, as you now do this wooden figure, in the light of commonplace reality,
and then the nimbus will vanish and nothing will remain save the dross as
here. Then your soul will turn away disenchanted and follow the vanished
God to loftier heights."

"Or plunge into the depths," murmured the countess.

"I should not fear that, for then my mission would have been vain! No,
my child, if I did not believe that I was appointed to save you I should have
no excuse in my own eyes for what I am doing. But come, it is late, we
must return home or our absence will occasion comment."

* * * * * * * * *

It was half-past nine o'clock. An elderly gentleman of distinguished
aristocratic bearing was pacing impatiently to and fro.

The two sisters were standing helplessly in the doorway, deeply
oppressed by the burden of so haughty a guest.

"If she would only come!" Sephi lamented in the utmost anxiety, for she
dreaded the father for the daughter's sake. It was the old Prince von
Prankenberg, and his bearing augured nothing good.

It seemed to these loyal souls a democratic impertinence on the part of
fate that such a gentleman should be kept waiting, and the prince regarded it
in precisely the same light. The good creatures would willingly have lent
wings to the daughter for whom such a father was waiting. But what did it
avail that the noble lord constantly quickened his pace as he walked to and
fro, time and his unsuspicious daughter did not do the same. Prince
Prankenberg had reached Ammergau at noon that day and waited in vain for
the countess. On his arrival he had found the whole village in an uproar
over the conflagration in the woods, and the countess and Herr Freyer, who
had been seen walking together in that direction, were missing. At last the