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.