Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/oncrossaromance00saffgoog
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
[Illustration: "_Accursed be the hour I raised you from the dust to my
side_."--Page 339]
ON THE CROSS
A
Romance of the Passion Play at
Oberammergau
BY
Wilhelmine von Hillern
AND
Mary J. Safford
DREXEL BIDDLE, PUBLISHER
PHILADELPHIA
Copyright, 1902
BY
ANTHONY J. DREXEL BIDDLE.
* * *
PRESS OF DREXEL BIDDLE, PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
TO
HERR JOHANNES DIEMER,
THE RENOWNED DELIVERER OF THE PROLOGUE IN THE PASSION PLAYS
OF THE LAST DECADE, A TRUE SON OF AMMERGAU, IN WHOSE
UNASSUMING PERSON DWELLS THE CALM, DEEP SOUL OF
THE ARTIST, THE LOYAL SYMPATHIZING FRIEND, IN
WHOSE PEACEFUL HOME I FOUND THE QUIET
AND THE MOOD I NEEDED TO COMPLETE
THIS WORK, IT IS NOW DEDICATED,
WITH GRATEFUL ESTEEM, BY
THE AUTHORESS.
CONTENTS.
Introduction.
CHAPTER I.
A Phantom.
CHAPTER II.
Old Ammergau.
CHAPTER III.
Young Ammergau.
CHAPTER IV.
Expelled from the Play.
CHAPTER V.
Modern Pilgrims.
CHAPTER VI.
The Evening Before the Play.
CHAPTER VII.
The Passion Play.
CHAPTER VIII.
Freyer.
CHAPTER IX.
Signs and Wonders.
CHAPTER X.
In the Early Morning.
CHAPTER XI.
Mary and Magdalene.
CHAPTER XII.
Bridal Torches.
CHAPTER XIII.
Banished from Eden.
CHAPTER XIV.
Pieta.
CHAPTER XV.
The Crowing of the Cock.
CHAPTER XVI.
Prisoned.
CHAPTER XVII.
Flying from the Cross.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Marriage.
CHAPTER XIX.
At the Child's Bedside.
CHAPTER XX.
Conflicts.
CHAPTER XXI.
Unaccountable.
CHAPTER XXII.
Falling Stars.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Noli me Tangere.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Attempts to Rescue.
CHAPTER XXV.
Day is Dawning.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The Last Support.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Between Poverty and Disgrace.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Parting.
CHAPTER XXIX.
In the Deserted House.
CHAPTER XXX.
The "Wiesherrle."
CHAPTER XXXI.
The Return Home.
CHAPTER XXXII.
To the Village.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Received Again.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
At Daisenberger's Grave.
CHAPTER XXXV.
The Watchword.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Memories.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Measure is Full.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
On the Way to the Cross.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Stations of Sorrow.
CHAPTER XL.
Near the Goal.
CONCLUSION.
From Illusion to Truth.
INTRODUCTION.
It was in the Garden of Gethsemane that the risen Son of God showed
Himself, as a simple gardener, to the penitent sinner. The miracle has
become a pious tradition. It happened long, long ago, and no eye has
ever beheld Him since. Even when the risen Lord walked among the men
and women of His own day, only those saw Him who wished to do so.
But those who wish to see Him, see Him now; and those who wish to seek
Him, find Him now.
The Garden of Gethsemane has disappeared--the hot sun of the East has
withered it. All things are subject to change. The surface of the earth
alters and where the olive tree once grew green and the cedar stretched
its leafy roof above the head of the Redeemer and the Penitent, there
is nothing now save dead, withered leafage.
But the Garden blooms once more in a cool, shady valley among the
German mountains. Modern Gethsemane bears the name of Oberammergau. As
the sun pursues its course from East to West, so the salvation which
came from the East has made its way across the earth to the West.
There, in the veins of young and vigorous nations, still flow the
living streams that water the seeds of faith on which the miracle is
nourished, and the stunted mountain pine which has sprung from the hard
rocks of the Ettal Mountain is transformed to a palm tree, the poor
habitant of the little mountain village to a God. It is change, and yet
constancy amid the change.
The world and its history also change in the passage of the centuries.
The event before which the human race sank prostrate, as the guards
once did when the risen Christ burst the gates of the tomb, gradually
passed into partial oblivion. The thunder with which the veil of the
temple was rent in twain died away in the misty distance; heaven closed
forever behind the ascended Lord, the stars pursued their old courses
in undisturbed regularity; revelations were silent. Men rubbed their
eyes as though waking from a dream and began to discuss what portion
was truth and what illusion. The strife lasted for centuries. One
tradition overthrew another, one creed crowded out another. With sword
in hand and the trumpet of the Judgment Day the _Ecclesia Militans_
established the dogma, enforced unity in faith. But peace did not last
long under the rule of the church. The Reformation again divided the
Christian world, the Thirty Years War, the most terrible religious
conflict the earth has ever witnessed began, and in the fury of the
battle the combatants forgot the _cause_ of the warfare. Amid the
streams of blood, the clouds of smoke rising from burning cities and
villages, the ruins of shattered altars, the cross, the holy emblem for
which the battle raged, vanished, and when it was raised again, it was
still but an emblem of warfare, no longer a symbol of peace.
There is a single spot of earth where, untouched by the tumult of the
world, sheltered behind the lofty, inhospitable wall of a high
mountain, the idea of Christianity has been preserved in all its
simplicity and purity--Oberammergau. As God once suffered the Saviour
of the World to be born in a manger, among poor shepherds, He seems to
have extended His protecting hand over this secluded nook and reserved
the poor mountaineers to repeat the miracle. Concealed behind the steep
Ettal mountain was a monastery where, from ancient times, the beautiful
arts had been sedulously fostered.
One of the monks was deeply grieved because, in the outside world,
iconoclasm was rudely shaking the old forms and, in blind fear, even
rejecting religious art as "Romish." As no holy image would be
tolerated; the Saviour and His Saints must disappear entirely from the
eyes of men. Then, in his distress, the inspiration came that a sacred
drama, performed by living beings, could produce a more powerful effect
than word or symbol. So it was determined in the monastery that one
should be enacted.
The young people in the neighborhood, who had long been schooled by the
influence of the learned monks to appreciate beauty, were soon trained
to act legends and biblical poems. With increasing skill they gained
more and more confidence, till at last their holy zeal led them to show
mankind the Redeemer Himself, the Master of the world, in His own
bodily form, saying to erring humanity; "Lo, thus He was and thus He
will be forever."
And while in the churches paintings and relics were torn from the walls
and crucifixes destroyed, the first Passion play was performed, A. D.
1634, under the open sky in the churchyard of Oberammergau--for this
spot, on account of its solemn associations, was deemed the fitting
place for the holy work. The disgraced image of love, defiled by blood
and flames, once more rose in its pure beauty! Living, breathing! The
wounds inflicted more than a thousand years before again opened, fresh
drops of blood trickled from the brow torn by its diadem of thorns,
again the "Continue ye in My love" fell from the pallid lips of the
Lamb of God, and what Puritanism had destroyed in its _dead_ form was
born anew in a _living one_. But, amid the confusion and roar of
battle, the furious yells of hate, no one heard the gentle voice in the
distant nook beyond the mountains.
The message of peace died away, the Crucified One shed His blood
unseen.
Years passed, the misery of the people constantly increased, lands were
ravaged, the ranks of the combatants thinned.
At last the warriors began to be paralyzed, the raging storm subsided
and pallid fear stared blankly at the foes who had at last gained their
senses--the plague, that terrible Egyptian Sphinx, lured by the odor of
corruption emanating from the long war, stole over the earth, and those
at whom she gazed with the black fiery eyes of her torrid zone, sank
beneath it like the scorched grass when the simoom sweeps over the
desert.
Silence fell, the silence of the grave, for wherever this spectre
stalks, death follows.
Fear reconciled enemies and made them forget their rancor in union
against the common foe, the cruel, invincible plague. They gazed around
them for some helping hand, and once more turned to that over which
they had so long quarrelled. Then amid the deathlike stillness of the
barren fields, the empty houses, the denuded churches, and the
desolated land, they at last heard the little bell behind the Ettal
mountain, which every decade summoned the Christian world to the
Passion Play, for this was the vow taken by the Ammergau peasants to
avert the plague and the divine wrath. Again the ever patient Saviour
extended His arms, crying: "Come unto Me, all ye who are weary and
heavy laden!" And they did come. They threw themselves at His feet, the
wearied, hunted earthlings, stained with dust and blood, and He
comforted and refreshed them, while they again recognized Him and
learned to understand the meaning of His sacrifice.
Those who thus saw Him and received the revelation announced it to
others, who flocked thither from far and near till the little
church-yard of Oberammergau became too narrow, and could no longer
contain the throngs; the open fields became a sacred theatre to receive
the pilgrims, who longed to behold the Redeemer's face.
And, strangely enough, all who took part in the sacred play, seemed
consecrated, the plague passed them by, Ammergau alone was spared.
So the pious seed grew slowly, often with periods when it stood still,
but the watchful eye can follow it in history.
Peace at last came to the world. Purer airs blew. The Egyptian hyena,
satiated, left the ravaged fields, new life bloomed from the graves,
and this new life knew naught of the pangs and sufferings of the old.
From the brutality and corruption of the long war, the new generation
longed for more refined manners, culture, and the pleasures of life.
But, as usual after such periods of deprivation and calamity, one
extreme followed another. The desire for more refined manners and
education led to hyperculture, the love of pleasure into epicureanism
and luxury, grace into coquetry, mirth into frivolity. Then came the
so-called age of gallantry. The foil took the place of the sword, the
lace jabot of the leather jerkin, the smoke of battle gave way to the
clouds of powder scattered by heads nodding in every direction.
Masked shepherds and shepherdesses danced upon the graves of a former
generation, a new Arcadia was created in apish imitation and peopled
with grimacing creatures who tripped about on tiptoe in their
high-heeled shoes. Instead of the mediaeval representations of martyrs
and emaciated saints appeared the nude gods and cupids of a Watteau and
his school. Grace took the place of majesty. Instead of moral law, men
followed the easy code of convenience and everything was allowable
which did not transgress its rules. Thus arose a generation of
thoughtless pleasure seekers, which bore within itself a moral
pestilence that, in contrast with the "Black Death," might be termed
the "Rosy Death" for it breathed upon the cheeks of all whom it
attacked the rosy flush of a fever which wasted more slowly, but none
the less surely.
And through this rouged, dancing, skipping age, with the click of its
high-heeled shoes, its rustling hooped petticoats, its amorous glances
and heaving bosoms, the chaste figure of the Man of Sorrows, with a
terrible solemnity upon his pallid brow, again and again trod the stage
of Ammergau, and whoever beheld Him dropped the flowing bowl of
pleasure, while the laugh died on his lips.
Again history and the judgment of the world moved forward. The "Rosy
Death" had decomposed and poisoned all the healthful juices of society
and corrupted the very heart of the human race--morality, faith, and
philosophy, everything which makes men manly, had gradually perished
unobserved in the thoughtless whirl. The tinsel and apish civilisation
no longer sufficed to conceal the brute in human nature. It shook off
every veil and stood forth in all its nakedness. The modern deluge, the
French Revolution burst forth. Murder, anarchy, the delirium of fever
swept over the earth in every form of horror.
Again came a change, a transformation to the lowest depths of
corruption. Grace now yielded to brutality, beauty to ugliness, the
divine to the cynical. Altars were overthrown, religion was abjured,
the earth trembled under the mass of destroyed traditions.
But from the turmoil of the throng, fiercely rending one another, from
the smoke and exhalations of this conflagration of the world, yonder in
the German Garden of Gethsemane again rose victoriously, like a
Ph[oe]nix from its ashes, the denied, rejected God, and the undefiled
sun of Ammergau wove a halo of glory around the sublime figure which
hung high on the cross.
It was a quiet, victory, of which the frantic mob were ignorant; for
they saw only the foe confronting them, not the one battling above. The
latter was vanquished long ago, He was deposed, and that settled the
matter. The people in their sovereignty can depose and set up gods at
pleasure, and when once dethroned, they no longer exist; they are
hurled into Tartarus. And as men can not do without a god, they create
an idol.
The country groaned beneath the iron stride of the Emperor and, without
wishing or knowing it, he became the avenger of the God in whose place
he stood. For, as the Thirty Years War ended under the scourge of the
pestilence, and the age of mirth and gallantry under the lash of
the Revolution, the Revolution yielded to the third scourge, the
self-created idol!
He, the man with compressed lips and brow sombre with thought, ruled
the unchained elements, became lord of the anarchy, and dictated laws
to a universe. But with iron finger he tore open the veins of humanity
to mark upon the race the brand of slavery. The world bled from a
thousand wounds, and upon each he marked the name "Napoleon."
Then, wan as the moon floats in the sky when the glow of the setting
sun is blazing in the horizon, the sovereign of the world in his bloody
splendor confronted the pallid shadow of the Crucified One, also robed
in a royal mantle, still wet with the blood He had voluntarily shed.
They gazed silently at each other--but the usurper turned pale.
At last, at the moment he imagined himself most like Him, God hurled
the rival god into the deepest misery and disgrace. The enemy of the
world was conquered, and popular hatred, so long repressed, at last
freed from the unbearable restraint, poured forth upon the lonely grave
at St. Helena its foam of execration and curses. Then the conqueror in
Oberammergau extended His arms in pardon, saying to him also: "Verily I
say unto thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise."
A time of peace now dawned, the century of _thought_. After the great
exertions of the war of liberation, a truce in political life followed,
and the nations used it to make up for what they had lost in the
development of civilization during the period of political strife. A
flood of ideas inundated the world. All talent, rejoicing in the mental
activity which had so long lain dormant, was astir. There was rivalry
and conflict for the prize in every department. The rising generation,
conscious of newly awakening powers, dared enterprise after enterprise
and with each waxed greater. With increasing production, the power of
assimilation also increased. Everything grand created in other
centuries was drawn into the circle of their own nation as if just
discovered. That for which the enlightened minds of earlier days had
vainly toiled, striven, bled, now bloomed in luxuriant harvests, and
the century erected monuments to those who had been misjudged and
adorned them with the harvest garland garnered from the seeds which
they had sowed in tears.
What Galvani and Salomon de Caeus, misunderstood and unheard, had
planned, now made their triumphal passage across the earth as a panting
steam engine or a flashing messenger of light, borne by and bearing
ideas.
The century which produced a Schiller and a Goethe first understood a
Shakespeare, Sophocles and Euripides rose from the graves where they
had lain more than a thousand years, archaeology brought the buried
world of Homer from beneath the earth, a Canova, a Thorwaldsen, a
Cornelius, Kaulbach, and all the great masters of the Renaissance of
our time, took up the brushes and chisels of Phidias, Michael Angelo,
Raphael, and Rubens, which had so long lain idle. What Aristotle had
taught a thousand, and Winckelmann and Lessing a hundred years before,
the knowledge of the laws of art, the appreciation of the beautiful,
was no longer mere dead capital in the hands of learned men, but
circulated in the throbbing veins of a vigorously developing
civilization; it demanded and obtained the highest goal.
The circle between the old and the new civilization has closed, every
chasm has been bridged. There is an alternate action of old and new
forces, a common labor of all the nations and the ages, as if there was
no longer any division of time and space, as if there was but one
eternal art, one eternal science. Ascending humanity has trodden matter
under foot, conquered science, made manufactures useful, and
transfigured art.
But this light which has so suddenly flamed through the world also
casts its shadows. Progress in art and science matures the judgment,
but judgment becomes criticism and criticism negation. The dualism
which permeates all creation, the creative and the destructive power,
the principle of affirmation and of denial, cannot be shut out even
now, but must continue the old contest which has never yet been
decided. Critical analysis opposes faith, materialism wars against
idealism, pessimism contends with optimism. The human race has reached
the outermost limit of knowledge, but this does not content it in its
victorious career, it wishes to break through and discover _the God_
concealed behind. Even the heart of a God must not escape the scalpel
which nothing withstood. But the barrier is impenetrable. And one
party, weary of the fruitless toil, pulls back the aspiring ones.
"Down to matter, whence you came. What are you seeking? Science has
attained the highest goal, she has discovered the protoplasm whence all
organism proceeded. What is the Creator of modern times? A
physiological--chemical, vital function within the substance of a cell.
Will ye pray to this, suffer for this, ye fools?"
Others turn in loathing from this cynical interpretation of scientific
results and throw themselves into the arms of beauty, seeking in it the
divinity, and others still wait, battling between earth and heaven, in
the dim belief of being nearest to the goal.
It is a tremendous struggle, as though the earth must burst under the
enormous pressure of power demanding room, irreconcilable contrasts.
Then amid the heat of the lecture rooms, the throng of students of art
and science, comes a long-forgotten voice from the days of our
childhood! And the straining eyes suddenly turn from the teachers and
the dissecting tables, from the glittering visions of art and the
material world to the stage of Oberammergau and the Passion Play.
There stands the unassuming figure with the crown of thorns and the
sorrowful, questioning gaze. And with one accord their hearts rush to
meet Him and, as the son who has grown rich in foreign lands, after
having eaten and enjoyed everything, longs to return to the poverty of
his home and falls repentantly at the feet of his forsaken father, the
human race, in the midst of this intoxication of knowledge and
pleasure, sinks sobbing before the pale flower of Christianity and
longingly extends its arms toward the rude wooden cross on which it
blooms!
That powerful thinker, Max Mueller, says in his comparative study of
religions:[1] "When do we feel the blessings of our country more warmly
and truly than when we return from abroad? It is the same with regard
to religion." That fact is apparent here! It is an indisputable verity
that, at the precise period when art and science have attained their
highest stages of development, the Oberammergau Passion Play enjoys a
degree of appreciation never bestowed before, that during this critical
age, from decade to decade, people flock to the Passion Play in ever
increasing throngs. Not only the uncultivated and ignorant, nay, the
most cultured--artists and scholars, statesmen and monarchs. The poor
village no longer has room to shelter all its guests; it is positively
startling to see the flood of human beings pour in on the evening
before the commencement of the play, stifling, inundating everything.
And then it is marvellous to notice how quiet it is on the morning of
the play, as it flows into the bare room called the theatre, how it
seems as it were to grow calm, as if every storm within or without was
subdued under the influence of those simple words, now more than two
thousand years old. How wonderful it is to watch the people fairly
holding their breath to listen to the simple drama for seven long hours
without heeding the time which is far beyond the limit our easily
wearied nerves are accustomed to bear.
What is it, for whose sake the highest as well as the lowest, the
richest and the poorest, prince and peasant, would sleep on a layer of
straw, without a murmur, if no bed could be had? Why will the most
pampered endure hunger and thirst, the most delicate heat and cold, the
most timid fearlessly undertake the hard journey across the Ettal
mountain? Is it mere curiosity to hear a number of poor wood-carvers,
peasants, and wood-cutters repeat under the open sky, exposed to sun
and rain, in worse German than is heard at school the same old story
which has already been told a thousand times, as the enemies of the
Passion Play say? Would this bring people every ten years from half the
inhabited world, from far and near, from South and North, from the
mountains and the valleys, from palaces and huts, across sea and land?
Certainly not? What is it then? A miracle?
Whoever has seen the Passion Play understands it, but it is difficult
to explain the mystery to those who have not.
The deity remains concealed from our earthly vision and unattainable,
like the veiled statue of Sais. Every attempt to raise this veil by
force is terribly avenged.
What is gained by those modern Socinians and Adorantes who, with
ill-feigned piety, seek to drag the mystery to light and make the God a
_human being_, in order to worship in the wretched puppet _themselves_?
Even if they beheld Him face to face, they would still see themselves
only, and He would cry: "You are like the spirit which you understand,
not me."
And what do the Pantheists gain who make man _God_, in order to embrace
in Him the unattainable? Sooner or later they will perceive that they
have mistaken the _effects_ for the _cause_, and the form for the
essence. Loathing and disappointment will be their lot, as it is the
lot of all who have nothing but--human beings.
But those to whom the visible is only the _symbol_ of the _invisible_
which teaches them from the effect to learn the cause, will, with
unerring logical correctness, pass from the form to the essence, from
the _illusion_ to the _truth_.
_That_ is the marvel of the modern Gethsemane, which this book will
narrate.
CHAPTER I.
A PHANTOM.
Solemn and lofty against the evening sky towers the Kofel, the
land-mark and protecting rock-bulwark of Oberammergau, bearing aloft
its solitary cross, like a threatening hand uplifted in menace to
confront an advancing foe with the symbol of victory.
Twilight is gathering, and the dark shadow of the mighty protector
stretches far across the quiet valley. The fading glow of sunset casts
a pallid light upon the simple cross which has stood on the mountain
peak for centuries, frequently renewed but always of the same size, so
that it can be seen a long distance off by the throngs who journey
upward from the valley, gazing longingly across the steep, inhospitable
mountains toward the goal of the toilsome pilgrimage.
It is Friday. A long line of carriages is winding like a huge serpent
up the Ettal mountain. Amid the throng, two very handsome landaus are
especially conspicuous. The first is drawn by four horses in costly
harnesses adorned with a coronet, which prance gaily in the slow
progress, as if the ascent of the Ettal mountain was but pastime for
animals of their breed. In the equipage, which is open, sit a lady and
a gentleman, pale, listless, uninterested in their surroundings and
apparently in each other; the second one contains a maid, a man
servant, and on the box the courier, with the pompous, official manner,
which proclaims to the world that the family he has the honor of
serving and in whose behalf he pays the highest prices, is an
aristocratic one. The mistress of this elegant establishment, spite of
her downcast eyes and almost lifeless air, is a woman of such
remarkable beauty that it is apparent even amidst the confusion of
veils and wraps. Blonde hair, as soft as silk, clusters in rings around
her brow and diffuses a warm glow over a face white as a tea rose,
intellectual, yet withal wonderfully, tender and sensuous in its
outlines. Suddenly, as though curious to penetrate the drooping lids
and see the eyes they concealed, the sun bursts through a rift in the
clouds, throwing a golden bridge of rays from mountain to mountain. Now
the lashes are raised to return the greeting, revealing sparkling dark
eyes of a mysterious color, varying every instant as they follow the
shimmering rays that glide along the cliff. Then something flashes from
a half-concealed cave and the beams linger a moment on a pale face. It
is an image of Christ carved in wood which, with uplifted hand, bids
the new comers welcome. But those who are now arriving do not
understand its language, the greeting remains unanswered.
The sunbeams glide farther on as if saying, "If this is not the Christ
you are seeking, perhaps it is he?" And now--they stop. On a rugged
peak, illumined by a halo of light, stands a figure, half concealed by
the green branches, gazing with calm superiority at the motley, anxious
crowd below. He has removed his hat and, heated by the rapid walk, is
wiping the perspiration from his brow. Long black locks parted in the
middle, float back from a grave, majestic face with a black beard and
strangely mournful black, far-seeing eyes. The hair, tossed by the
wind, is caught by a thorny branch which sways above the prematurely
furrowed brow. The sharp points glow redly in the brilliant sunset
light, as if crimsoned with blood from the head which rests dreamily
against the trunk. A tremor runs through the form of the woman below;
she suddenly sits erect, as though roused from sleep. The wandering
rays which sought her eyes also lead her gaze to those of the solitary
man above, and on this golden bridge two sparkling glances meet. Like
two pedestrians who cannot avoid each other on a narrow path, they look
and pause. They grasp and hold each other--one must yield, for neither
will let the other pass.
Then the sunbeam pales, the bridge has fallen, and the apparition
vanishes in the forest shadows.
"Did you see that?" the lady asked her companion, who had also glanced
up at the cliff.
"What should I have seen?"
"Why--that--that--" she paused, uncertain what words to choose. She was
going to say, "that man up there," but the sentence is too prosaic, yet
she can find no other and says merely, "him up there!" Her companion,
glancing skyward, shakes his head.
"_Him_ up there! I really believe, Countess, that the air of Ammergau
is beginning to affect you. Apparently you already have religious
hallucinations--or we will say, in the language of this hallowed soil,
heavenly visions!"
The countess leans silently back in her corner--the cold, indifferent
expression returns to the lips which just parted in so lovely a smile.
"But what did you see? At least tell me, since I am not fortunate
enough to be granted such visions," her companion adds with kindly
irony. "Or was it too sublime to be communicated to such a base
worldling as I?"
"Yes," she says curtly, covering her eyes with her hand, as if to shut
out the fading sunset glow in order to recall the vision more
distinctly. Then she remains silent.
Night gradually closes in, the panting train of horses has reached the
village. Now the animals are urged into a trot and the drivers turn the
solemn occasion into a noisy tumult. The vehicles jolt terribly in the
ruts, the cracking of whips, the rattle of wheels, the screams of
frightened children and poultry, the barking of dogs, blend in a
confused din, and that nothing may be wanting to complete it, a howling
gust of wind sweeps through the village, driving the drifting clouds
into threatening masses.
"This is all we lacked--rain too!" grumbled the gentleman. "Shall I
have the carriage closed?"
"No," replied the Countess, opening her umbrella. "Who would have
thought it; the sun was shining ten minutes ago!"
"Yes, the weather changes rapidly in the mountains. I saw the shower
rising. While you were admiring some worthy wood-cutter up yonder as a
heavenly apparition, I was watching the approaching tempest." He draws
the travelling rug, which has slipped down, closer around the lady and
himself. "Come what may, I am resigned; when we are in Rome, we must
follow the Roman customs. Who would not go through fire and water for
you, Countess?" He tries to take her hand, but cannot find it among the
shawls and wraps. He bites his lips angrily; he had expected that the
hand he sought would gratefully meet his in return for so graceful an
expression of loyalty! Large drops of rain beat into his face.
"Not even a clasp of the hand in return for the infernal journey to
this peasant hole," he mutters.
The carriages thunder past the church, the flowers and crosses on the
graves in the quiet church-yard tremble with the shaking of the ground.
The lamps in the parsonage are already lighted, the priest comes to the
window and gazes quietly at the familiar spectacle. "Poor travellers!
Out in such a storm!"
One carriage after another turns down a street or stops before a house.
The Countess and her companion alone have not yet reached their
destination. Meantime it has grown perfectly dark. The driver is
obliged to stop to shut up the carriage and light the lantern, for the
rain and darkness have become so dense and the travellers are drenched.
An icy wind, which always accompanies a thunderstorm in the mountain,
blows into their faces till they can scarcely keep their eyes open. The
servant, unable to see in the gloom, is clumsy in closing the carriage,
the hand-bags fall down upon the occupants; the driver can scarcely
hold the horses, which are frightened by the crowds in pursuit of
lodgings. He is not familiar with the place and, struggling to restrain
the plunging four-in-hand, enquires the way in broken sentences from
the box, and only half catches the answers, which are indistinct in the
tumult. Meantime the other servants have arrived. The Countess orders
the courier to drive on with the second carriage and take possession of
the rooms which have been engaged. The man, supposing it is an easy
matter to find the way in so small a place, moves forward. The Countess
can scarcely control her ill humor.
"An abominable journey--the horses overheated by the ascent of the
mountain and now this storm. And the lamps won't burn, the wind
constantly blows them out. You were right, Prince, we ought to have
taken a hired--" She does not finish the sentence, for the ray
from one of the carriage lamps, which has just been lighted with much
difficulty, falls upon a swiftly passing figure, which looks almost
supernaturally tall in the uncertain glimmer. Long, black locks,
dripping with moisture, are blown by the wind from under his
broad-brimmed hat. He has evidently been surprised by the storm without
an umbrella and is hurrying home--not timidly and hastily, like a
person to whom a few drops of rain, more or less, is of serious
importance, but rather like one who does not wish to be accosted. The
countess cannot see his face, he has already passed, but she
distinguishes the outlines of the slender, commanding figure in the
dark dress, noticing with a rapid glance the remarkably elastic gait,
and an involuntary: "There he goes again!" escapes her lips aloud.
Obeying a sudden impulse, she calls to the servant: "Quick, ask the
gentleman yonder the way to the house of Andreas Gross, where we are
going."
The servant follows the retreating figure a few steps and shouts,
"Here, you--" The stranger pauses a moment, half turns his head, then,
as if the abrupt summons could not possibly be meant for _him_, moves
proudly on without glancing back a second time.
The servant timidly returns. A feeling of shame overwhelms the
countess, as though she had committed the blunder of ordering him to
address a person of high rank travelling incognito.
"The gentleman wouldn't hear me," says the lackey apologetically, much
abashed. "Very well," his mistress answers, glad that the darkness
conceals her blushes. A flash of lightning darts from the sky and a
sudden peal of thunder frightens the horses. "Drive on," the countess
commands; the lackey springs on the box, the carriage rolls forward--a
few yards further and the dark figure once more appears beside the
vehicle, walking calmly on amid the thunder and lightning, and merely
turns his head slightly toward the prancing horses.
The equipage dashes by--the countess leans silently back on the
cushions, and shows no further desire to look out.
"Tell me, Countess Madeleine," asks the gentleman whom she has just
addressed as 'Prince,' "what troubles you today?"
The countess laughs. "Dear me, how solemnly you put the question! What
should trouble me?"
"I cannot understand you," the prince continued. "You treat me coldly
and grow enthusiastic over a vision of the imagination which already
draws from you the exclamation: 'There he is _again!_' I cannot help
thinking what an uncertain possession is the favor of a lady whose
imagination kindles so easily."
"This is charming," the countess tried to jest. "My prince jealous--of
a phantom?"
"That is just it. If a _phantom_ can produce such variations in the
temperature of your heart toward me, how must my hopes stand?"
"Dear Prince, you know that whether with or without a phantom, I could
never yet answer this question which Your Highness frequently
condescends to ask me."
"I believe, Countess, that one always stands between us! You pursue
some unknown ideal which you do not find in me, the realist, who has
nothing to offer you save prosaic facts--his hand, his principality,
and an affection for which unhappily he lacks poetic phrases."
"You exaggerate, Prince, and are growing severe. There is a touch of
truth--I am always honest--yet, as you know, you are the most favored
of all my suitors. Still it is true that an unknown disputes precedence
with you. This rival is but the man of my imagination--but the world
contains no one like my ideal, so you have nothing to fear."
"What ideal do you demand, Countess, that no one can attain it?"
"Ah! a very simple one, yet you conventional natures will never
understand it. It is the simplicity of the lost Paradise to which you
can never return. I am by nature a lover of the ideal--I am
enthusiastic and need enthusiasm; but you call me a visionary when I am
in the most sacred earnest. I yearn for a husband who believes in my
ideal, I want no one from whom I must conceal it in order to avoid
ridicule, and thus be unable to be true to my highest self. He whom my
soul seeks must be at once a man and a child--a man in character and a
child in heart. But where in our modern life is such a person to be
found? Where is gentleness without feeble sentimentality? Where is
there enthusiasm without fantastic vagueness, where simplicity of heart
without narrowness of mind? Whoever possesses a manly character and a
strong intellect cannot escape the demands which science and politics
impose, and this detracts from the emotional life, gives prominent
development to concrete thought, makes men realistic and critical. But
of all who suffer from these defects of our time, you are the best,
Prince!" she adds, smilingly.'
"That is sorry comfort," murmurs the prince. "It is a peculiar thing to
have an invisible rival; who will guarantee that some person may not
appear who answers to the description?"
"That is the reason I have not yet given you my consent," replies the
countess, gravely.
Her companion sighs heavily, makes no reply, but gazes steadfastly into
the raging storm. Alter a time he says, softly, "If I did not love you
so deeply, Countess Madeleine--"
"You would not bear with me so long, would you?" asks the countess,
holding out her hand as if beseeching pardon.
This one half unconscious expression of friendship disarms the
irritated man.--He bends over the slender little hand and raises it
tenderly to his lips.
"She must yet be mine!" he says under his breath, by way of
consolation, like all men whose hopes are doubtful. "I will even dare
the battle with a phantom."