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.
