From that hour Magdalena Freyer never left her husband's bedside. Though friends came in turn to share the night-watches, she remained with them. After a few days the doctor said that unless an attack of weakness supervened, the danger was over for the present, though he did not conceal from her that the disease was incurable. She clasped her hands and answered: "I will consider every day that I am permitted to keep him a boon, and submissively accept what God sends."
After that time she always showed her husband a smiling face, and he--perfectly aware of his condition--practiced the same loving deception toward her. Thus they continued to live in the salutary school of the most rigid self-control--she, bearing with dignity a sad fate for which she herself was to blame--he in the happiness of that passive heroism of Christianity, which goes with a smile to meet death for others! An atmosphere of cheerfulness surrounded this sick-bed, which can be understood only by one who has watched for months beside the couch of incurable disease, and felt the gratitude with which every delay of the catastrophe, every apparent improvement is greeted--the quiet delight afforded by every little relief given the beloved sufferer, every smile which shows us he feels somewhat easier.
This cup of anguish the penitent woman now drained to the dregs. True, a friendly genius always stood beside it to comfort her: the hope that, though not fully recovered, he might still be spared to her. "How many thousands who have heart disease, with care and nursing live to grow old." This thought sustained her. Yet the ceaseless anxiety and sleepless nights exhausted her strength. Her cheeks grew hollow, dark circles surrounded her eyes, but she did not heed it.
"I still please my husband!" she said smiling, in reply to all entreaties to spare herself on account of her altered appearance.
"My dove!" Freyer said one evening, when Ludwig came for the night-watch: "Now I must show a husband's authority and command you to take some rest, you cannot go on in this way."
"Oh! never mind me--if I should die for you, what would it matter? Would it not be a just atonement?"
"No--that would be no atonement," he said tenderly, pushing back the light fringe of curls that shaded her brow, as if he wished to read her thoughts on it: "My child, you must live for me--that is your atonement. Do you think you would do anything good if you expiated your fault by death and said: 'There you have my life for yours, now we are quits, you have no farther claim upon me!' Would that be love, my dove?"
He drew her gently toward him: "Or would you prefer that we should be quits thus, and that I should desire no other expiation from you than your death?" She threw her arms around him, clasping him in a closer and closer embrace. There was no need of speech, the happy, blissful throbbing of her heart gave sufficient answer. He kissed her on the forehead: "Now sleep, beloved wife and rest--do it for my sake, that I may have a fresh, happy wife!"
She rose as obediently as a child, but it was hard for her, and she nodded longingly from the door as if a boundless, hopeless distance already divided them.
"Ludwig!" said Freyer, gazing after her in delight: "Ludwig, is this love?"
"Yes, by Heaven!" replied his friend, deeply moved: "Happy man, I would bear all your sorrows--for one hour like this!"
"Have you now forgiven what she did to me?"
"Yes, from my very soul!"
"Magdalena," cried Freyer. "Come in again--you must know it before you sleep--Ludwig is reconciled to you."
"Ludwig," said the countess: "my strict, noble friend, I thank you."
Leading him to the invalid, she placed their hands together. "Now we are again united, and everything is just as it was ten years ago--only I have become a different person, and a new and higher life is beginning for me."
She pressed a kiss upon the brow of her husband and friend, as if to seal a vow, then left them alone.
"Oh, Ludwig, if I could see you so happy!"
"Do not be troubled--whoever has experienced this hour with you, needs nothing for himself," he answered, an expression of the loftiest, most unselfish joy on his pallid face.
The countess, before retiring, sent for Martin who was still in Oberammergau, awaiting her orders, and went out into the garden that Freyer might not hear them talking in the next room. "Martin," she said with quiet dignity, though there was a slight tremor in her voice, "it is time for me to give some thought to worldly matters. During the last few days I could do nothing but devote myself to the sick bed. Drive home, my good Martin, and give the carriage and horses to the Wildenaus. Tell them what has happened, if they do not yet know it, I cannot write now. Meanwhile, you faithful old servant, tell them to take all I have--my jewels, my palace, my whole private fortune. Only I should like--for the sake of my sick husband--to have them leave me, for humanity's sake, enough to get him what he needs for his recovery!" here her voice failed.
"Countess--"
"Oh, don't call me that!"
"Yes--for the countess will always be what she is, even as Herr Freyer's wife! I only wanted to say. Your Highness, that I wouldn't do that. If I were you, I wouldn't give them a single kind word. I'll take back the carriage and horses and say that they can have everything which belongs to you. But I won't beg for my Countess! I think it would be less disgrace if you should condescend to accept something from a plain man like myself, who would consider it an honor and whom you needn't thank! I--" he laughed awkwardly: "I only want to say, if you won't take offence--that I bargained for a little house to-day. But I did it in your name, so that Your Highness needn't be ashamed to live with me! I haven't any kith and kin and--and it will belong to you."
"Martin, Martin!" the proud woman humbly bent her head. "Be it so! You shall help me, if all else abandons me. I will accept it as a loan from you. I can paint--I will try to earn something, perhaps from one of the fashion journals, to which I have always subscribed. The maid once told me I might earn my living by it--it was a prophecy! So I can, God willing, repay you at some future day."
"Oh, we won't talk about that!" cried Martin joyously, kissing the countess' hands.
"If I may have a little room under the roof for myself--we'll call it the interest. And I have something to spare besides, for--you must eat, too."
The countess covered her face with her trembling hands.
"Now I'll drive home and in Your Highness' name throw carriage, horses, and all the rest of the rubbish at the Wildenaus' feet--then I'll come back and bring something nice for our invalid which can't be had here--and my livery, for Sundays and holidays, so that we can make a good appearance! And I'll look after the garden and house, and--do whatever else you need. Oh, I've never been so happy in my life!"
He left her, and the countess stood gazing after him a long time, deeply shamed by the simple fidelity of the old man, who wished to wear her livery and be her servant, while he was really her benefactor: In truth--high or low--human nature is common to all. Martin returned: "Doesn't Your Highness wish to bid farewell to the horses? Shan't I drive past, or will it make you feel too badly?"
"Beautiful creatures," a tone of melancholy echoed in her voice as she spoke: "No, Martin, I don't want to see them again."
"Yes, yes--!" Martin had understood her, and pitied her more than for anything else, for it seemed to him the hardest of sacrifices to part with such beautiful horses.
The countess remained alone in the little garden. The stars were shining above her head. She thought of the diamond stars which she had once flung to Freyer in false atonement, to place in the dead child's coffin--if she had them now to use their value to support her sick husband--that would be the fitting atonement.
"Only do not let him starve, oh, God! If I were forced to see him starve! Oh, God!--spare me that, if it can be!" she prayed, her eyes uplifted with anxious care to the glittering star-strewn vault.
"How is he?" a woman's figure suddenly emerged from the shadow at her side.
"Oh, Mary--Anastasia!"
"How is he?"
"Better, I think! He was very cheerful this evening!--"
"And you, Frau Freyer--how is it with you? It is hard, is it not? There are things to which we must become accustomed."
"Yes."
"I can understand. But do not lose confidence--God is always with us. And--I will pray to the Virgin Mary, whom I have so often personated! But if there is need of anything where human power can aid, I may help, may I not?"
"Mary--angel, be my teacher--sister!"
"No, mother!" said Anastasia smiling: "For if Freyer is my son, you must be my daughter. Oh, you two poor hearts, I am and shall now remain your mother, Mary!"
"Mother Mary!"--the countess repeated, and the two women held each other in a loving embrace.----
The week was drawing to a close, and the burgomaster was now obliged to consider the question of the distribution of parts. He found the patient out of bed and wearing a very cheerful, hopeful expression.
"I don't know, Herr Freyer, whether I can venture to discuss my important business with you," he began timidly.
"Oh--I understand--you wish to know when I can play again? Next Sunday."
"You are not in earnest?" said the burgomaster, almost startled.
"Not in earnest? Herr Burgomaster, what would be the value of all my oaths, if I should now retreat like a coward? Do you think I would break my word to you a second time, so long as I had breath in my body?"
"Certainly not, so long as it is in your power to hold out. But this time you cannot! Ask the doctor--he will not allow it so soon."
"Am I to ask him, when the question concerns the most sacred duty? I will consult him about my life--but my duties are more than my life. Only thus can I atone for the old sin which ten years ago made me a renegade."
"And you say this now--when you are so happy?"
"Herr Burgomaster," replied Freyer with lofty serenity: "A man who has once been so happy and so miserable as I, learns to view life from a different standpoint! No joy enraptures, no misfortune terrifies him. Everything to which we give these names is fluctuating, and only one happiness is certain: to do one's duty--until death!"
"Herr Freyer! That is a noble thought, but if your wife should hear it--would she agree?"
"Surely, for she thinks as I do--if she did not, we should never have been united--she would never have cast aside wealth, rank, power, and all worldly advantages to live with me in exile. Do you believe she did so for any earthly cause? She thinks so--but I know better: The cross allured her--as it does all who come in contact with it."
"What are you saying about the cross?" asked the countess, entering the room: "Good-morning, Friend Burgomaster!"
"My wife! He will not believe that you would permit me to play the Christus again--even should it cost my life?"
The countess turned pale with terror. "Oh, Heaven, are you thinking of doing so?"
"Yes"--replied the burgomaster: "He will not be dissuaded from it!"
"Joseph!" said the countess mournfully: "Will you inflict this grief upon me--now, when you have scarcely recovered?"
"I assure you that I have played the Christus when I felt far worse than I do now--thanks to your self-sacrificing care, dear wife."
Tears filled the countess' eyes, and she remained silent.
"My dove, do we not understand each other?"
"Yes "--she said after a long, silent struggle: "Do it, my beloved husband--give yourself to God, as I resign you to Him. He has only loaned you to me, I dare not keep you from Him, if He desires to show Himself again to the world in your form! I will cherish and tend and watch over you, that you may endure it! And when you are taken down from the cross, I will rub your strained limbs and bedew your burning brow with the tears of all the sorrows Mary and Magdalene suffered for the Crucified One, and--when you have rested and again raise your eyes to mine with a smile, I will rest your head upon my breast in the blissful feeling that you are no God Who will ascend to Heaven--but a man, a tender, beloved man, and--my own. Oh, God cannot destroy such happiness, and if He does, He will only draw you to Himself, that I may therefore long the more fervently for you, for Him, Who is the source of all love--then--" her voice was stifled by tears as she laid her head on his breast--"then your wife will not murmur, but wait silently and patiently till she can follow you." Leaning on his breast, she wept softly, clasping him in her arms that he might not be torn from her.
"Dear wife," he answered gently, and the wonderfully musical voice trembled with the most sacred emotion, "we will accept whatever God sends--loyal to the cross--you and I, beloved, high-hearted woman! Do not weep, my dove! Being loyal to the cross does not mean only to be patient--it means also to be strong! Does not the soldier go bravely to death for an earthly king, and should not I joyfully peril my life for my God?"
"Yes, my husband you are right, I will be strong. Go, then, holy warrior, into the battle for the ideal and put yourself at the disposal of your brave fellow combatants!" She slowly withdrew her arms from his neck as if taking a long, reluctant farewell.
The burgomaster resolutely approached. "We people of Ammergau must bow to this sacred zeal. This is indeed a grandeur which conquers death! Whoever sees this effect of our modest Play on souls like yours cannot be mistaken in believing that the power which works such miracles does not emanate from men, and must proceed from a God. But as He is a God of love. He will not accept your sacrifice. Freyer must not take the part which might cost him his life. We will find a Christus elsewhere and thus manage for this time."
Freyer fixed his eyes mournfully on the ground. "Now the crown has indeed fallen from my head! God has no longer accepted me--I am shut out from the sacred work!"
The burgomaster placed his wife in his arms: "Let it be your task now to guard this soul and lead it to its destination--this, too, is a sacred work!"
"Yes, and amen!" said Freyer.
The ex-countess and the former Christus, both divested of their temporary dignity, verified his words, attaining in humility true dignity! Freyer rallied under the care of his beloved wife, and they used the respite allotted to them by leading a life filled with labor, sacrifice, and gratitude toward God.
"You ask me, dear friend," the countess wrote a year later to the Duke of Barnheim, "whether you can assist me in any way? I thank you for the loyal friendship, but must decline the noble offer. Contentment does not depend upon what we have, but what we need, and I have that, for my wants are few. This is because I have obtained blessings, which formerly I never possessed and which render me independent of everything else. Much as God has taken from me. He has bestowed in exchange three precious gifts: contempt for the vanities of the world, appreciation of the little pleasures of life, and recognition of the real worth of human beings. I am not even so poor as you imagine. My faithful old Martin, who will never leave me, helped me out of the first necessity. Afterwards the Wildenaus' were induced to give up my private property, jewels, dresses, and works of art, and their value proved sufficient to pay Martin for the little house he had purchased for me and to establish for my husband a small shop for the sale of wood-carving, so that he need not be dependent upon others. When he works industriously--which he is only too anxious to do at the cost of his delicate health--we can live without anxiety, though, of course, very simply. I know how many of my former acquaintances would shudder at the thought of such a prosaic existence! To them I would say that I have learned not to seek poetry in life, but to place it there. Yes, tell the mocking world that Countess Wildenau lives by her husband's labor and is not ashamed of it! My friend! To throw away a fortune for love of a woman is nothing--but to toil year in and year out, with tireless fidelity and sacrifice, to earn a wife's daily bread in the sweat of one's brow, is something! Do you know what it is to a woman to owe her life daily to her beloved husband? An indescribable happiness! You, my friend, would have bestowed a principality upon me, and I should have accepted it as my rightful tribute, without owing you any special gratitude--but the hand which toils for me I kiss every evening with a thrill of grateful reverence.
"So do not grieve for me! Wed the lovable and charming Princess Amalie of whom you wrote, and should you ever come with your young wife into the vicinity of the little house surrounded by rustling firs, under the shadow of the Kofel, I should be cordially glad to welcome you.
"Farewell! May you be as happy, my noble friend, as you deserve, and leave to me my poverty and my wealth. You see that the phantom has become reality--the ideal is attained.
"Your old friend
"Magdalena Freyer."
When the duke received this letter his valet saw him, for the first time in his life, weep bitterly.
