THE MARRIAGE.
On a wooded height, hidden in the heart of the forests of the Bavarian
highlands, stood an ancient hunting castle, the property of the
Wildenau family. A steep mountain path led up to it, and at its feet,
like a stone sea, stretched the wide, dry bed of a river, a Griess, as
it was called in that locality. Only a few persons knew the way; to the
careless glance the path seemed wholly impassable.
Bare, rugged cliffs towered like a wall around the hunting castle on
its mossy height, harmonizing in melancholy fashion with the white sea
of stone below, which formed a harsh foreground to the dreary scene.
Ever and anon a stag emerged from the woods, crossing the Griess with
elastic tread, the brown silhouette of its antlers sharply relieved
against the colorless monotony of the landscape. The hind came forward
from the opposite side, slowly, reluctantly, with nostrils vibrating.
The report of a rifle echoed from beyond the river bed, the antlers
drooped, the royal creature fell upon its knees, then rolled over on
its back; its huge antlers, flung backward in the death agony, were
thrust deep down among the loose pebbles. The hind had fled, the
poacher seized his prey--a slender rill of blood trickled noiselessly
through the stones, then everything was once more silent and lifeless.
This was the hiding-place where, for seven years, Countess Wildenau had
hidden the treasury filched from the cross--the rock sepulchre in which
she intended to keep the God whom the world believed dead. Built close
against the cliff, half concealed by an overhanging precipice, the
castle seemed to be set in a niche. Shut out from the sunshine by the
projecting crag which cast its shadow over it even at noonday, it was
so cold and damp that the moisture trickled down the walls of the
building, and, moreover, was surrounded by that strange atmosphere of
wet moss and rotting mushrooms which awakens so strange a feeling when,
after a hot walk, we pause to rest in the cool courtyard of some ruined
castle, where our feet sink into wet masses of mouldering brown leaves
which for decades no busy hand has swept away. It seems as if the sun
desired to associate with human beings. Where no mortal eyes behold its
rays, it ceases to shine. It does not deem it worth while to penetrate
the heaps of withered leaves, or the tangle of wild vines and bushes,
or the veil of cobwebs and lime-dust which, in the course of time,
accumulates in heaps in the masonry of a deserted dwelling.
As we see by a child's appearance whether or not it has a loving
mother, so the aspect of a house reveals whether or not it is dear to
its owner, and as a neglected child drags out a joyless existence, so a
neglected house gradually becomes cold and inhospitable.
This was the case with the deserted little hunting seat. No foot had
crossed its threshold within the memory of man. What could the Countess
Wildenau do with it? It was so remote, so far from all the paths of
travel, so hidden in the woods that it would not even afford a fine
view. It stood as an outpost on the chart containing the location of
the Wildenau estates. It had never entered the owner's mind to seek it
out in this--far less in reality.
Every year an architect was sent there to superintend the most
necessary repairs, because it was not fitting for a Wildenau to let one
of these family castles go to ruin. This was all that was done to
preserve the building. The garden gradually ran to waste, and became so
blended with the forest that the boughs of the trees beat against the
windows of the edifice and barred out like a green hedge the last
straggling sunbeams. A castle for a Sleeping Beauty, but without the
sleeping princess. Then Fate willed that a blissful secret in its
owner's breast demanded just such a hiding-place in which to dream the
strangest fantasy ever imagined by woman since Danae rested in the
embrace of Jove.
Madeleine von Wildenau sought and found this forgotten spot in her
chart, and, with the energy bestowed by the habit of being able to
accomplish whatever we desire, she discovered a secret ford through the
Griess, known only to a trustworthy old driver, and no one was aware of
Countess Wildenau's residence when she vanished from society for days.
There were rumors of a romantic adventure or a religious ecstacy into
which the Ammergau Passion Play had transported her years before. She
had set off upon her journey to the Promised Land directly after, and
as no sea is so wide, no mountain so lofty, that gossip cannot find its
way over them, it even made its way from the Holy Sepulchre to the
drawing rooms of the capital.
A gentleman, an acquaintance of so-and-so, had gone to the Orient, and
in Jerusalem, at the Holy Sepulchre, met a veiled lady, who was no
other than Countess Wildenau. There would have been nothing specially
remarkable in that. But at the lady's side knelt a gentleman who bore
so remarkable a resemblance to the pictures of Christ that one might
have believed it was the Risen Lord Himself who, dissatisfied with
heaven, had returned repentant to His deserted resting-place.
How interesting! The imagination of society, thirsting for romance,
naturally seized upon this bit of news with much eagerness.
Who could the gentleman with the head of Christ be, save the Ammergau
Christ? This agreed with the sudden interruption of the Passion Play
that summer, on account of the illness of the Christ--as the people of
Ammergau said, who perfectly understood how to keep their secrets from
the outside world.
But as they committed the imprudence of occasionally sending their
daughters to the city, one and another of these secrets of the
community, more or less distorted, escaped through the dressing-rooms
of the mistresses of these Ammergau maids.
Thus here and there a flickering ray fell upon the Ammergau
catastrophe: The Christ was not ill--he had vanished--run away--with a
lady of high rank. What a scandal! Then lo! one day Countess Wildenau
appeared--after a journey of three years in the east--somewhat
absentminded, a little disposed to assume religious airs, but without
any genuine piety. Religion is not to be obtained by an indulgence of
religious-erotic rapture with its sweet delusions--it can be obtained
only by the hard labor of daily self-sacrifice, of which a nature like
Madeleine von Wildenau's has no knowledge.
So she returned, somewhat changed--yet only so far as that her own ego,
which the world did not know, was even more potential than before.
But she came alone! Where had she left her pallid Christ? All inquiries
were futile. What could be said? There was no proof of anything--and
besides; proven or not--what charge would have overthrown Countess
Wildenau? That would have been an achievement for which even her foes
lacked perseverance?
It is very amusing when a person's moral ruin can be effected by a word
carelessly uttered! But when the labor of producing proof is associated
with it, people grow good-natured from sheer indolence--let the victim
go, and seek an easier prey.
This was the case with the Countess Wildenau! Her position remained as
unshaken as ever, nay the charm of her person exerted an influence even
more potent than before. Was it her long absence, or had she grown
younger? No matter--she had gained a touch of womanly sweetness which
rendered her irresistible.
In what secret mine of the human heart and feeling had she garnered the
rays which glittered in her eyes like hidden treasures on which the
light of day falls for the first time?
When a woman conceals in her heart a secret joy men flock around her,
with instinctive jealousy, all the more closely, they would fain
dispute the sweet right of possession with the invisible rival. This is
a trait of human nature. But one of the number did so consciously, not
from a jealous instinct but with the full, intense resolve of
unswerving fidelity--the prince! With quiet caution, and the wise
self-control peculiar to him, he steadily pursued his aim. Not with
professions of love; he was only too well aware that love is no weapon
against love! On the contrary, he chose a different way, that of cold
reason.
"So long as she is aglow with love, she will be proof against any other
feeling--she must first be cooled to the freezing-point, then the
chilled bird can be clasped carefully to the breast and given new
warmth."
It would be long ere that point was reached--but he knew how to wait!
Meanwhile he drew the Countess into a whirl of the most fascinating
amusements.
No word, no look betrayed the still hopeful lover! With the manner of
one who had relinquished all claims, but was too thoroughly a man of
the world to avoid an interesting woman because he had failed to win
her heart, he again sought her society after her return. Had he
betrayed the slightest sign of emotion, he would have been repulsive
in her present mood. But the perfect frankness and unconcern with which
he played the "old friend" and nothing more, made his presence a
comfort, nay even a necessity of life! So he became her inseparable
companion--her shadow, and by the influence of his high position
stifled every breath of slander, which floated from Ammergau to injure
his beautiful friend.
During the first months after her return she had the whim--as she
called it--of retiring from society and spending more time upon her
estates. But the wise caution of the prince prevented it.
"For Heaven's sake, don't do that. Will you give free play to the
rumors about your Ammergau episode and the pilgrimage to Jerusalem
connected with it, by withdrawing into solitude and thus leaving the
field to your slanderers, that they may disport at will in the deserted
scenes of your former splendor?"
"This," he argued, "is the very time when you must take your old
position in society, or you will be--pardon my frankness--a fallen
star."
The Countess evidently shrank from the thought.
"Or--have you some castle in the air whose delights outweigh the world
in your eyes?" he asked with relentless insistence:
This time the Countess flushed to the fair curls which clustered around
her forehead.
Since that time the drawing-rooms of the Wildenau palace had again
been filled with the fragrance of roses--lighted, and adorned with
glowing Oriental magnificence, and the motley tide of society, amid
vivacious chatter, flooded the spacious apartments. Glittering with
diamonds, intoxicated by the charm of her own beauty whose power she
had not tested for years, the Countess was the centre of all this
splendor--while in the lonely hunting-seat beyond the pathless Griess,
the solitary man whom she had banished thither vainly awaited--his
wife.
The leaves in the forest were turning brown for the sixth time since
their return from Jerusalem, the autumn gale was sweeping fresh heaps
of withered leaves to add to the piles towering like walls around the
deserted building, the height was constantly growing colder and more
dreary, the drawing-rooms below were continually growing warmer, the
Palace Wildenau, with its Persian hangings and rugs and cosy nooks
behind gay screens daily became more thronged with guests. People drew
their chairs nearer and nearer the blazing fire on the hearth, which
cast a rosy light upon pallid faces and made weary eyes sparkle with a
simulated glow of passion. The intimate friends of the Countess
Wildenau, reclining in comfortable armchairs, were gathered in a group,
the gentlemen resting after the fatigues of hunting--or the autumn
man[oe]uvres, the ladies after the first receptions and balls of the
season, which are the more exhausting before habit again asserts its
sway, to say nothing of the question of toilettes, always so trying to
the nerves at these early balls.
What is to be done at such times? It is certainly depressing to
commence the season with last year's clothes, and one cannot get new
ones because nobody knows what styles the winter will bring? Parisian
novelties have not come. So one must wear an unassuming toilette of no
special style in which one feels uncomfortable and casts aside
afterwards, because one receives from Paris something entirely
different from what was expected!
So the ladies chatted and Countess Wildenau entered eagerly into the
discussion. She understood and sympathized with these woes, though now,
as the ladies said, she really could not "chime in" since she had a
store of valuable Oriental stuffs and embroideries, which would supply
a store of "exclusive" toilettes for years. Only people of inferior
position were compelled to follow the fashions--great ladies set them
and the costliness of the material prevented the garments from
appearing too fantastic. A Countess Wildenau could allow herself such
bizarre costumes. She had a right to set the fashions and people would
gladly follow her if they could, but two requirements were lacking, on
one side the taste--on the other the purse. The Countess charmingly
waived her friends' envious compliments; but her thoughts were not on
the theme they were discussing; her eyes wandered to a crayon picture
hanging beside the mantel-piece, the picture of a boy who had the
marvellous beauty of one of Raphael's cherubs.
"What child is that?" asked one of the ladies who had followed her
glance.
"Don't you recognize it?" replied the Countess with a dreamy smile. "It
is the Christ in the picture of the Sistine Madonna."
"Why, how very strange--if you had a son one might have thought it was
his portrait, it resembles you so much."
"Do you notice it?" the Countess answered. "Yes, that was the opinion
of the artist who copied the picture; he gave it to me as a surprise."
She rose and took another little picture from the wall. "Look, this is
a portrait of me when I was three years old--there really is some
resemblance."
The ladies all assented, and the gentlemen, delighted to have an
opportunity to interrupt the discussion of the fashions, came forward
and noticed with astonishment the striking likeness between the girl
and the boy.
"It is really the Christ child in the Sistine Madonna--very exquisitely
painted!" said the prince.
"By the way, Cousin," cried a sharp, high voice, over Prince Emil's
shoulder, a voice issuing from a pair of very thin lips shaded by a
reddish moustache, "do you know that you have the very model of this
picture on your own estates?"
The Countess, with a strangely abrupt, nervous movement, pushed the
copy aside and hastily turned to replace her own portrait on the wall.
The gentlemen tried to aid her, but she rejected all help, though she
was not very skillful in her task, and consequently was compelled to
keep her back turned to the group a long time.
"It is possible--I cannot remember," she replied, while still in this
position. "I cannot know the children of all my tenants."
"Yes," the jarring voice persisted, "it is a boy who is roaming about
near your little hunting-castle."
Madeleine von Wildenau grew ghastly pale.
"Apropos of that hunting box," the gentleman added--he was one of the
disinherited Wildenaus--"you might let me have it, Cousin. I'll confess
that I've recently been looking up the old rat's nest. Schlierheim will
lease his preserves beyond the government forests, but only as far as
your boundaries, and there is no house. My brother and I would hire
them if we could have the old Wildenau hunting-box. We are ready to pay
you the largest sum the thing is worth. You know it formerly belonged
to our branch of the family, and your husband obtained it only forty
years ago. At that time it was valueless to us, but now we should like
to buy it again."
The Countess shivered and ordered more wood to be piled on the fire.
She had unconsciously drawn nearer to Prince Emily as if seeking his
protection. Her shoulder touched his. She was startlingly pale.
"The recollection of her husband always affects her in this way," the
prince remarked.
"Well, we will discuss the matter some other time, _belle cousine_!"
said Herr Wildenau, sipping a glass of Chartreuse which the servant
offered.
Prince Emil's watchful gaze followed the little scene with the closest
attention.
"Did you not intend to have the little castle put in order for your
father's residence, as the city air does not agree with him in his
present condition?" he said, with marked emphasis.
"Yes, certainly--I--we were speaking of it a short time ago," stammered
the Countess. "Besides, I am fond of the little castle. I should not
wish to sell it."
"Ah, you are _fond_ of it. Pardon me--that is difficult to understand!
I thought you set no value upon it--the whole place is so neglected."
"That is exactly what pleases me--I like to have it so," replied the
Countess in an irritated tone. "It does not need to have everything in
perfect order. It is a genuine forest idyl!"
"A forest idyl?" repeated the cousin. "H'm, Ah, yes! That's a different
matter. Pardon me. Had I known it, I would not have alluded to the
subject!" His keen gray eyes glittered with a peculiar light as he
kissed her hand and took his leave.
The others thought they must now withdraw also, and the Countess
detained no one--she was evidently very weary.
The prince also took leave--for the sake of etiquette--but he
whispered, with an expression of friendly anxiety, "I will come back
soon." And he kept his promise.
An hour had passed. Madeleine von Wildenau, her face still colorless,
was reclining on a divan in a simple home costume.
Prince Emil's first glance sought the little table on which stood the
crayon picture of the infant Christ--it had vanished.
The Countess followed his look and saw that he missed it--their eyes
met. The prince took a chair and sat down by her side, as if she were
an invalid who had just sustained a severe operation and required the
utmost care. He himself was very pale. Gently arranging the pillows
behind her, he gazed sympathizingly into her face.
"Why did you not tell me this before?" he murmured, almost inaudibly,
after a pause. "All this should have been very differently managed!"
"Prince, how could I suppose that you were so generous--so noble"--she
could not finish the sentence, her eyes fell, the beautiful woman's
face crimsoned with shame.
He gazed earnestly at her, feeling at this moment the first great
sorrow of his life, but also perceiving that he could not judge the
exquisite creature who lay before him like a statue of the Magdalene
carved by the most finished artist--because he could not help loving
her in her sweet embarrassment more tenderly than ever.
"Madeleine," he said, softly, and his breath fanned her brow like a
cooling breeze, "will you trust me? It will be easier for you."
She clasped his hand in her slender, transparent fingers, raising her
eyes beseechingly to his with a look of the sweetest feminine weakness,
like a young girl or an innocent child who is atoning for some trivial
sin. "Let me keep my secret," she pleaded, with such touching
embarrassment that it almost robbed the prince of his calmness.
"Very well," he said, controlling himself with difficulty. "I will ask
no farther questions and will not strive to penetrate your secret. But
if you ever need a friend--and I fear that may happen--pray commit no
farther imprudences, and remember that, in me, you possess one who adds
to a warm heart a sufficiently cool head to be able to act for you as
this difficult situation requires! Farewell, _chere amie_! Secure a
complete rest."
Without waiting for an answer, like the experienced physician, who
merely prescribes for his patients without conversing with them about
the matter, he disappeared.
The countess was ashamed--fairly oppressed by the generosity of his
character. Would it have been better had she told him the truth?
Should she tell him that she was married? Married! Was she wedded?
Could she be called a wife? She had played a farce with herself and
Freyer, a farce in which, from her standpoint, she could not believe
herself.
On their flight from Ammergau they had hastened to Prankenberg,
surprised the old pastor in his room, and with Josepha and a coachman
who had grown gray in the service of the Wildenau family for witnesses,
declared in the presence of the priest that they took each other for
husband and wife.
The old gentleman, in his surprise and perplexity, knew not what course
to pursue. The countess appealed to the rite of the Tridentine Council,
according to which she and Freyer, after this declaration, were man and
wife, even without a wedding ceremony or permission to marry in another
diocese. Then the loyal pastor, who had grown gray in the service of
the Prankenbergs, as well as of his church, could do nothing except
acknowledge the fact, declare the marriage valid, and give them the
marriage certificate.
So at the breakfast-table, over the priest's smoking coffee, the bond
had been formed which the good pastor was afterwards to enter in the
church register as a marriage. But even this outward proof of the
marriage between the widowed Countess Wildenau and the Ammergau
wood-carver Freyer was removed, for the countess had been right in
distrusting her father and believing that his advice concerning the
secret marriage was but a stratagem of war to deter her from taking any
public step.
On returning from the priest's, her carriage dashed by Prince von
Prankenberg's.
Ten minutes after the prince rushed like a tempest into the room of the
peaceful old pastor, and succeeded in preventing the entry of the
"scandal," as he called it, in the church register. So the proofs of
the fact were limited to the marriage certificate in the husband's
hands and the two witnesses, Josepha and Martin, the coachman--a chain,
it is true, which bound Madeleine von Wildenau, yet which was always in
her power.
What was this marriage? How would a man like the prince regard it?
Would it not wear a totally different aspect in the eyes of the sceptic
and experienced man of the world than in those of the simple-hearted
peasant who believed that everything which glittered was gold? Was such
a marriage, which permitted the exercise of none of the rights and
duties which elevate it into a moral institution, better than an
illegal relation? Nay, rather worse, for it perpetrated a robbery of
God--it was an illegal relation which had stolen a sacred name!
But--what did this mean? To-day, for the first time, she felt as if
fate might give the matter the moral importance which she did not
willingly accord it--as if the Deity whose name she had abused might
take her at her word and compel her to turn jest into earnest.
Her better nature frankly confessed that this would be only moral
justice! To this great truth she bowed her head as the full ears bend
before the approaching hail storm.
Spite of the chill autumn evening, there was an incomprehensible
sultriness in the air of the room.
Something in the brief conversation with Herr Wildenau and especially
in the manner in which the prince, with his keen penetration,
understood the episode, startled the Countess and aroused her fears.
Why had Herr Wildenau gone to the little hunting-box? How had he seen
the child?
Yet how could she herself have been so imprudent as to display the
picture? And still--it was the infant Christ of Raphael. Could she not
even have one of Raphael's heads in her drawing-room without danger
that some one would discover a suspicious resemblance!
She sprang from the cushions indignantly, drawing herself up to her
full height. Who was she? What did she dread?
"Anything but cowardice, Madeleine," she cried out to herself. "Woe
betide you, if your resolution fails, you are lost! If you do not look
the brute gossip steadily in the eye, if so much as an eye-lash
quivers, it will rend you. Do not be cowardly, Madeleine, have no
scruples, they will betray you, will make your glance timid, your
bearing uncertain, send a flush to your brow at every chance word.
But"--she sank back among her cushions--"but unfortunately this very
day the misfortune has happened, all these people may go away and say
that they saw the Countess Wildenau blush and grow confused--and
why?--Because a child was mentioned--"
She shuddered and cowered--a moan of pain escaped her lips!
"Yet you exist, my child--I cannot put you out of the world--and no
mother ever had such a son. And I, instead of being permitted to be
proud of you, must feel ashamed.
"Oh, God, thou gavest me every blessing: the man I loved, a beautiful
child--all earthly power and splendor--yet no contentment, no
happiness! What do I lack?" She sat a long time absorbed in gloomy
thought, then suddenly the cause became clear. She lacked the moral
balance of service and counter-service.
That was the reason all her happiness was but theft, and she was
forced, like a thief, to enjoy it in fear and secrecy. Her maternal
happiness was theft--for Josepha, the stranger, filled a mother's place
to the boy, and when she herself pressed him to her heart she was
stealing a love she had not earned. Her conjugal happiness was a theft,
for so long as she retained her fortune, she was not permitted to
marry! That was the curse! Wherever she looked, wherever she saw
herself, she was always the recipient, the petitioner--and what did she
bestow in return? Where did she make any sacrifice? Nothing--and
nowhere! Egotism was apparent in everything. To enjoy all--possess all,
even what was forbidden and sacrifice nothing, must finally render her
a thief--in her own eyes, in those of God, and who knows, perhaps also
in those of men, should her secret ever be discovered!
"Woe betide you, unhappy woman--have you not the strength to resign one
for the other? Would you rather live in fear of the betrayer than
voluntarily relinquish your stolen goods? Then do not think yourself
noble or lofty--do not deem yourself worthy of the grace for which you
long!"
She hid her face in the cushions of the divan, fairly quivering under
the burden of her self-accusation.
"I beg your pardon, your Highness, I only wanted to ask what evening
toilette you desired."
Madeleine von Wildenau started up. "If you would only cease this
stealing about on tip-toe!" she angrily exclaimed. "I beg pardon, I
knocked twice and thought I did not hear your 'come in.'"
"Walk so that you can be heard--I don't like to have my servants glide
about like spies, remember that!"
"At Princess Hohenstein's we were all obliged to wear felt slippers.
Her Highness could not endure any noise."
"Well I have better nerves than Princess Hohenstein."--
"And apparently a worse conscience," muttered the maid, who had not
failed to notice her mistress' confusion.
"May I ask once more about the evening toilette?"
"Street costume--I shall not go to the theatre, I will drive out to the
estates. Order Martin to have the carriage ready."
The maid withdrew.
The countess felt as if she were in a fever--must that inquisitive maid
see her in such a condition? It seemed as though she was surrounded
like a hunted animal, as though eyes were everywhere watching her.
There was something in the woman's look which had irritated her. Oh,
God, had matters gone so far--must she fear the glance of her own maid?
Up and away to nature and her child, to her poor neglected husband on
the cliff.
Her heart grew heavy at the thought that the time since she had last
visited the deserted man could soon be counted by months.
Her _interest_ in the simple-hearted son of nature was beginning to
wane, she could not deny it. Woe betide her if _love_ should also grow
cold; if that should happen, then--she realized it with horror--she
would have no excuse for the whole sensuous--supersensuous episode,
which had perilled both her honor and her existence!