FALLING STARS.
"The new mistress of ceremonies isn't popular."
"Countess Wildenau is said to have fallen into disgrace already; she
did not ride in the queen's carriage at the recent great parade."
"That is perfectly natural. It was to be expected, when a lady so
unaccustomed to put any constraint upon herself as Countess Wildenau
was appointed to such a position."
"She is said to make constant blunders. If she chooses, she keeps the
queen and the whole court waiting. She is reported to have arrived at
court fifteen minutes too late a short time ago."
"And to have forgotten to present a number of ladies."
"People are indignant with her."
"Poor woman, she takes infinite trouble, but the place is not a
suitable one for her--she is absent-minded and makes mistakes, which
are unpardonable in a mistress of ceremonies."
"Yes, if the queen's cousin, the Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim
did not uphold her, the queen would have dropped her long ago. She is
seen at court only when she is acting as representative. She has not
succeeded in establishing personal relations with Her Majesty."
Such, at the end of a few months, were the opinions of society, and
they were just.
It seemed as though the curse of those whom she had deserted, rested
upon her--do what she would, she had no success in this position.
As on the mountain peak towering into the upper air, every warm current
condenses into a cloud, so in the cool, transparent atmosphere of very
lofty and conspicuous positions the faintest breath of secret struggles
and passions seems to condense into masses of clouds which often gather
darkly around the most brilliant personalities, veiling their traits.
The passionate, romantic impulse, which was constantly at war with the
aristocratic birth and education of the countess, was one of those
currents which unconsciously and involuntarily must enter as an alien
element in the crystalline clearness of these peaks of society.
This was the explanation of the mystery that the countess, greatly
admired in private life and always a welcome guest at court, could not
fill an official position successfully. The slight cloud which, in her
private life, only served to surround her with a halo of romance which
rendered the free independent woman of rank doubly interesting, was
absolutely unendurable in a lady of the court representing her
sovereign! There everything must be clear, calm, official. The
impersonal element of royalty, as it exists in our day, specially in
the women of reigning houses, will not permit any individuality to make
itself prominent near the throne. All passionate emotions and
peculiarities are abhorrent, because, even in individuals, they are
emanations of the seething popular elements which sovereigns must at
once rule and fear.
Countess Wildenau's constant excitement, restless glances, absence
of mind, and feverish alternations of mood unconsciously expressed
the vengeance of the spirit of the common people insisted in her
husband--and the queen, in her subtle sensibility, therefore had a
secret timidity and aversion to the new mistress of ceremonies which
she could not conquer. Thus the first mists in the atmosphere near the
throne arose, the vapors gathered into clouds--but the clouds were seen
by the keen-eyed public--as the sun of royal favor vanished behind
them.
It is far better never to have been prominent than to be forced to
retire. The countess was a great lady, whose power seemed immovable and
unassailable, so long as she lived independently--now it was seen that
she was on the verge of a downfall! And now there was no occasion for
further consideration of the woman hitherto so much envied. Vengeance
could fearlessly be taken upon her for always having handsomer
toilettes, giving better dinners, attracting more admirers--and being
allowed to do unpunished what would be unpardonable in others.
"A woman who is continually occupied with herself cannot be mistress of
ceremonies, I see that clearly," she said one day to the prince. "If
any position requires self-denial, it is this. And self-denial has
never been my forte. I ought to have known that before accepting the
place. People imagine that the court would be the very field where the
seeds of egotism would flourish most abundantly! It is not true;
whoever wishes to reap for himself should remain aloof, only the utmost
unselfishness, the most rigid fulfilment of duty can exist there. But
I, Prince, am a spoiled, ill-trained creature, who learned nothing
during the few years of my unhappy marriage save to hate constraint and
shun pain! What is to be done with such a useless mortal?"
"Love her," replied Prince Emil, as quietly as if he were speaking of a
game of chess, "and see that she is placed in a position where she need
not obey, but merely command. Natures created to rule should not serve!
The pebble is destined to pave the path of daily life--the diamond to
sparkle. Who would upbraid the latter because it serves no other
purpose? Its value lies in itself, but only connoisseurs know how to
prize it!" Thus her friend always consoled her and strengthened her
natural tendencies. But where men are too indulgent to us, destiny is
all the more severe--this is the amends for the moral sins of society,
the equalization of the undeserved privileges of individuals compared
with the sad fate of thousands.
Prince Emil's efforts could not succeed in soothing the pangs of
Madeleine von Wildenau's conscience--for he did not know the full
extent of her guilt. If he knew all, she would lose him, too.
Josepha took care to torture the mother's heart by the reports sent
from Italy.
Freyer was silent. Since that bitter letter, which he wrote, she had
heard nothing more from him. He had hidden himself in his solitary
retreat as a sick lion seeks the depths of its cave, and she dared not
go to him there, though a secret yearning often made her start from her
sleep with her husband's name on her lips, and tears in her eyes.
In addition to this she was troubled by Herr Wildenau, who was becoming
still more urgent in his offers to purchase the hunting-castle, and
often made strangely significant remarks, as though he was on the track
of some discovery. The child with the treacherous resemblance was far
away--but if this man was watching--_that_ fact itself might attract
his notice because it dated from the day when he made the first
allusions. She lay awake many nights pondering over this mystery, but
could not discover what had given him the clew to her secret. She did
not suspect that it was the child himself who, in an unwatched moment,
had met the curious stranger and made fatal answers to his cunning
questions, telling him of "the beautiful lady who came to see 'Goth'
who had been God--in Ammergau! And that he loved the beautiful lady
dearly--much better than Mother Josepha!"
Question and answer were easy, but the inference was equally so. It was
evident to the inquisitor that a relation existed here quite
compromising enough to serve as a handle against the countess, if the
exact connection could be discovered. Cousin Wildenau and his brother
resolved from that day forth to watch the countess' mysterious actions
sharply--this was the latest and most interesting sport of the
disinherited branch of the Wildenau family.
But the game they were pursuing had a powerful protector in the prince,
they must work slowly and cautiously.
At court also it was his influence which sustained her. The queen, out
of consideration for him, showed the utmost patience in dealing with
the countess spite of her total absence of sympathy with her. Thus the
unfortunate woman lived in constant uncertainty. Her soul was filled
with bitterness by the experiences she now endured. She felt like
dagger thrusts the malevolence, the contempt with which she had been
treated since the sun of royal favor had grown dim. She lost her
self-command, and no longer knew what she was doing. Her pride
rebelled. A Wildenau, a Princess von Prankenberg, need not tolerate
such treatment! Her usual graciousness deserted her and, in its place,
she assumed a cold, haughty scorn, which she even displayed while
performing the duties of her office, and thereby still more incensed
every one against her. Persons, whom she ought to have honored she
ignored. Gradations of rank and lists of noble families, the alpha and
omega of a mistress of ceremonies, were never in her mind. People
entitled to the first position were relegated to the third, and similar
blunders were numerous. Complaints and annoyances of all kinds poured
in, and at a state dinner in honor of the visit of a royal prince, she
was compelled to endure, in the presence of the whole court, a rebuke
from the queen who specially distinguished a person whom she had
slighted.
This dinner became fateful to her. Wherever she turned, she beheld
triumphant or sarcastic smiles--wherever she approached a group,
conversation ceased with the marked suddenness which does not seek to
conceal that the new-comer has been the subject of the talk. Nay, she
often encountered a glance which seemed to say: "Why do you still
linger among us?"
It happened also that the prince had been summoned to Cannes by his
father's illness and was not at hand to protect her. She had hoped that
he would return in time for the dinner, but he did not come. She was
entirely deserted. A few compassionate souls, like the kind-hearted
duchess whom she met at the Passion Play, her ladies-in-waiting, and
some maids of honor, joined her, but she felt in their graciousness a
pity which humbled her more than all the insults. And her friends! The
gentlemen who belonged to the circle of her intimate acquaintances had
for some time adopted a more familiar tone, as if to imply that she
must accept whatever they choose to offer. She was no longer even
beautiful--a pallid, grief-worn face, with hollow eyes gazing
hopelessly into vacancy, found no admirers in this circle. And as every
look, every countenance wore a hostile expression, her own image gazed
reproachfully at her from the mirror, the dazzling fair neck with its
marvellous contours, supported a head whose countenance was weary and
prematurely aged. "It is all over with you!" cried the mirror! "It
is all over with you!" smiled the lips of society. "It is all over
with you, you may be glad if we still come to your dinners!" the
wine-scented breath of her former intimate friends insultingly near her
seemed to whisper.
Was this the world, to which she had sacrificed her heart and
conscience? Was this the honor for which she hourly suffered tortures.
And on the wintry mountain height the husband who had naught on earth
save the paltry scrap of love she bestowed, was perishing--she had
avoided him for months because to her he represented that uncomfortable
Christianity whose asceticism has survived the civilization of
thousands of years. Yes! This christianity of the Nazarene who walked
the earth so humbly in a laborer's garb is the friend of the despised
and humbled. It asks no questions about crowns and the favor of courts,
human power and distinction. And she who had trembled and sinned for
the wretched illusions, the glitter of the honors of this brief
life--was she to despise a morality which, in its beggar's garb, stands
high above all for which the greatest and most powerful tremble?
Again the symbol of the renewed bond between God and the world--the
cross--rose before her, and on it hung the body of the Redeemer,
radiant in its chaste, divine beauty--that body which for _her_
descended from the cross where it hung for the whole world and, after
clasping it in her arms, she repined because it was only the _image_ of
what no earthly desire will ever attain, no matter how many human
hearts glow with the flames of love so long as the world endures.
"My Christus--my sacrificed husband!" cried a voice in her heart so
loudly that she did not hear a question from the queen. "It is
incredible!" some one exclaimed angrily near her. She started from her
reverie. "Your Majesty?" The queen had already passed on, without
waiting for a reply--whispers and nods ran through the circle, every
eye was fixed upon her. What had the queen wanted? She tried to hurry
after her. Her Majesty had disappeared, she was already going through
the next hall--but the distance was so great--she could not reach her,
the space seemed to increase as she moved on. She felt that she was on
the verge of fainting and dragged herself into a secluded room.
The members of the court were retiring. Confusion arose--the mistress
of ceremonies was absent just at the moment of the _Conge_! No one had
time to seek her. All were assembling to take leave, and then hurrying
after servants and wraps. Carriage after carriage rolled away, the
rooms were empty, the lackeys came to extinguish the lights. The
countess lay on a sofa, alone and deserted in the last hall of the
suite.
"In Heaven's name, is your Highness ill?" cried an old major-domo,
offering his assistance to the lady, who slowly rose. "Is it all over?"
she asked, gazing vacantly around "Where is my servant?"
"He is still waiting outside for Your Highness," replied the old
gentleman, trying to assist her. "Shall I call a doctor or a maid?"
"No, thank you, I am well again. It was only an attack of giddiness,"
said the countess, walking slowly out of the palace.
"Who is driving to-night?" she asked the footman, as he put her fur
cloak over her bare shoulders.
"Martin, Your Highness."
"Very well, then go home and say that I shall not come, but visit the
estates."
"It is bitterly cold. Your Highness!" observed the major domo, who had
attended her to the equipage.
"That does not matter--is the beaver robe in the carriage?"
"Certainly, Your Highness!"
"What time is it? Late?"
"Oh no; just nine. Your Highness."
"Forward, then!"
Martin knew where.
The major-domo closed the door and away dashed the horses into the
glittering winter night along the familiar, but long neglected road. It
was indeed a cold drive. The ground was frozen hard and the carriage
windows were covered with frost flowers. The countess' temples were
throbbing violently, her heart beat eagerly with longing for the
husband whom she had deserted for this base world! The mood of that
Ammergau epoch again asserted its rights, and she penitently hastened
to seek the beautiful gift she had so thoughtlessly cast aside. With a
heart full of rancor over the injustice and lovelessness experienced in
society, her soul plunged deeply into the sweet chalice of the love and
poesy of those days--a love which was religion--a religion which was
_love_. "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have
not charity, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal!" Aye,
for sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal she had squandered warm
heart's blood, and the sorrowing soul of the people from whose sacred
simplicity her wearied soul was to have drawn fresh youth, gazed
tearfully at her from the eyes of her distant son.
The horses went so slowly to-night, she thought--no pace is swift
enough for a repentant heart which longs to atone!
He would be angry, she would have a bitter struggle with him--but she
would soften his wrath--she would put forth all her charms, she would
be loving and beautiful, fairer than he had ever seen her, for she had
never appeared before him in full dress, with diamonds sparkling on her
snowy neck, and heavy gold bracelets clasping her wonderful arms.
She would tell him that she repented, that everything should be as of
yore when she plighted her troth to him by the glare of the bridal
torches of the forest conflagration and, feeling Valkyrie might in her
veins, dreamed Valkyrie dreams.
She drew a long breath and compared the pallid court lady of the
present, who fainted at a proof of disfavor and a few spiteful glances,
with the Valkyrie of those days! Was it a mere delusion which made her
so strong? No--even if the God whom she saw in him was a delusion, the
love which swelled in her veins with that might which defied the
elements was divine and, by every standard of philosophy, aesthetics,
and birth, as well as morality, had a right to its existence.
Then why had she been ashamed of it? On account of trivial prejudices,
petty vanities: in other words, weakness!
Not Freyer, but _she_ was too petty for this great love! "Yet
wait--wait, my forsaken husband. Your wife is coming to-day with a love
that is worthy of you, ardent enough to atone in a single hour for the
neglect of years."
She breathed upon the frost-coated pane, melting an opening in the
crust of ice. The castle already stood before her, the height was
almost reached. Then--a sudden jolt--a cry from the coachman, and the
carriage toppled toward the precipice. With ready nerve the countess
sprang out on the opposite side.
"What is it?"
"Why, the horses shied at sight of Herr Freyer!" said the coachman, as
Freyer, with an iron hand, curbed the rearing animals. The countess
hastened toward him. Aided by the coachman, he quieted the trembling
creatures.
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness," said Freyer, still panting from the
exertion he had made. "I came out of the wood unexpectedly, and the
dark figure frightened them. Fortunately I could seize their reins."
"Drive on, Martin," the countess ordered, "I will walk with Herr
Freyer." The coachman obeyed. She put her hand through Freyer's arm.
"No wonder that the horses shied, my husband, you look so strange. What
were you doing in the woods in the middle of the night?"
"What I always do--wandering about."
"That is not right, you ought to sleep."
"Sleep?" Freyer repeated with a bitter laugh.
"Is this my reception, Joseph?"
"Pardon me--it makes me laugh when you talk of sleeping! Look"--he
raised his hat: "Even in the starlight you can see the white hairs
which have come since you were last here, sent my child away, and made
me wholly a hermit. No sleep has come to my eyes and my hair has grown
grey."
The countess perceived with horror the change which had taken place in
him. Threads of silver mingled with his black locks, his eyes were
sunken, his whole figure was emaciated, his chest narrowed--he was a
sick man. She could not endure the sight--it was the most terrible
reproach to her; she fixed her eyes on the ground: "I had made such a
lovely plan--Martin has the key of the outside door--I was going to
steal gently to the side of your couch and kiss your sleeping lips."
"I thank you for the kind intention. But do you imagine that I could
have slept after receiving that letter which brought me the news that I
was betrayed--betrayed once more and, after all the sacred promises
made during your last visit, you had done exactly the opposite and
accepted a position which separated you still farther from your husband
and child, bound you still more firmly to the world? Do you imagine
that the _days_ are enough to ponder over such thoughts? No, one must
call in the nights to aid. You know that well, and I should be far
better satisfied if you would say honestly: 'I know that I am killing
you, that your strength is being consumed with sorrow, but I have no
wish to change this state of affairs!' instead of feigning that you
cannot understand why I should not sleep quietly and wondering that I
wander all night in the forest? But fear nothing, I am perfectly
calm--I shall reproach you no farther," he added in a milder tone, "for
I have closed accounts with myself--with you--with life. Do not weep,
I promised that when you sought your husband you should find him--I
will not be false to my pledge. Come, lay your little head upon my
breast--you are trembling, are you cold? Lean on me, and let us walk
faster that I may shelter you in the warm room. Wandering dove--how did
you happen suddenly to return to your husband's lonely nest in the cold
night, in this bitter winter season? Why did not you stay in the warm
cote with the others, where you had everything that you desire? Do you
miss anything? Tell me, what do you seek with me, for what does your
little heart long?" His voice again sank to the enthralling whisper
which had formerly made all her pulses throb with a sensation of
indescribable bliss. His great heart took all its pains and suffering
and ceased to judge her. The faithless dove found the nest open, and
his gentle hand scattered for her the crumbs of his lost happiness, as
the starving man divides his last crust with those who are poorer
still.
She could not speak--overpowered by emotion she leaned against him,
allowing herself to be carried rather than led up the steep ascent. But
she could not wait, even as they moved her lips sought his, her little
hands clasped his, and a murmur tremulous with emotion: "_This_ is what
I missed!"--answered the sweet question. The stars above sparkled with
a thousand rays--the whole silent, glittering, icy winter night
rejoiced.
At last the castle was reached and the "warm" room received them. It
did not exactly deserve the name, for the fire in the stove had gone
out, but neither felt it--the glow in their hearts sufficed.
"You must take what I can offer--I am all alone, you know."
"_All alone_!" she repeated with a happy smile which he could see by
the starlight shining through the open window. Another kiss--a long
silent embrace was exchanged.
"Now let me light a lamp, that I may take off your cloak and make you
comfortable! Or, do you mean to spend the night so?" He was bewitching
in his mournful jesting, his sad happiness.
"Ah, it is so long since I have seen you thus," Madeleine murmured.
"World, I can laugh at you now!" cried an exultant voice in her heart,
for the old love, the old spell was hers once more. And as he again
appeared before her in his mild greatness and beauty, she desired to
show herself his peer--display herself to him in all the dazzling
radiance of her beauty. As he turned to light the lamp she let the
heavy cloak fall and stood in all her loveliness, her snowy neck framed
by the dark velvet bodice, on which all the stars in the firmament
outside seemed to have fallen and clung to rest there for a moment.
Freyer turned with the lamp in his hand--his eyes flashed--a faint cry
escaped his lips! She waited smiling for an expression of delight--but
he remained motionless, gazing at her as if he beheld a ghost, while
the glance fixed upon the figure whose diamonds sparkled with a myriad
rays constantly grew more gloomy, his bearing more rigid--a deep flush
suffused his pallid face. "And this is my wife?" at last fell in a
muffled, expressionless tone from his lips. "No--it is not she."
The countess did not understand his meaning--she imagined that the
superb costume so impressed him that he dared not approach her, and she
must show him by redoubled tenderness that he was not too lowly for
this superb woman. "It _is_ your wife, indeed it is, and all this
splendor veils a heart which is yours, and yours alone!" she cried,
throwing herself on his breast and clasping her white arms around him.
But with a violent gesture he released himself, drawing back a step.
"No--no--I cannot, I will not touch you in such a guise as this."
"Freyer!" the countess angrily exclaimed, gazing at him as if to detect
some trace of insanity in his features. "What does this mean?"
"Have you--been in society--in _that_ dress?" he asked in a low tone,
as if ashamed for her.
"Yes. And in my impatience to hasten to you I did not stop to change
it. I thought you would be pleased."
Freyer again burst into the bitter laugh from which she always shrank.
"Pleased, when I see that you show yourself to others so--"
"How?" she asked, still failing to understand him.
"So naked!" he burst forth, unable to control himself longer. "You have
uncovered your beauty thus before the eyes of the gentlemen of your
world? And this is my wife--a creature so destitute of all shame?"
"Freyer!" shrieked the countess, tottering backward with her hand
pressed upon her brow as if she had just received a blow on the head:
"This to _me_--_to-day_!"
"To-day or to-morrow. On any day when you display the beauty at which I
scarcely dare to glance, to the profane eyes of a motley throng of
strangers, who gaze with the same satisfaction at the booths of a
fair--on any day when you expose to greedy looks the bosom which
conceals the heart that should be mine--on any such day you are
unworthy the love of any honest man."
A low cry of indignation answered him, then all was still. At last
Madeleine von Wildenau's lips murmured with a violent effort: "This is
the last!"
Freyer was striving to calm himself. He pressed his burning brow
against the frosty window-panes with their glittering tangle of crystal
flowers and stars. The sparkling firmament above gazed down in its
eternal clearness upon the poor earthling, who in his childlike way was
offering a sacrifice to the chaste God, whose cold home it was.
"Whenever I come--there is always some new torture for me--but you have
never so insulted and outraged me as today," said the countess slowly,
in a low tone, as if weighing every word. Her manner was terribly calm
and cold.
"I understand that it may be strange to you to see a lady in full
dress--you have never moved in a circle where this is a matter of
course and no one thinks of it. To the pure all things are pure, and he
who is not stands with us under the law of the etiquette of our
society. Our village lasses must muffle themselves to the throat, for
what could protect them from the coarse jests and rudeness of the
village lads?"
Freyer winced, he felt the lash.
"To add to the splendor of festal garments," she went on, "a little of
the natural beauty of the divinely created human body is a tribute
which even the purest woman can afford the eye, and whatever is kept
within the limits of the artistic sense can never be shameless or
unseemly. Woe betide any one who passes these bounds and sees evil
in it--he erases himself from the ranks of cultured people. So much,
and no more, you are still worthy that I should say in my own
justification!"
She turned and took up the cloak to wrap herself in it: "Will you be
kind enough to have the horses harnessed?"
"Are you going?" asked Freyer, who meanwhile had regained his
self-control.
"Yes."
"Alas, what have I done!" he said, wringing his hands. "I have not even
asked you to sit down, have not let you rest, have offended and wounded
you. Oh, I am a savage, a wretched man."
"You are what you can be!" she replied with the cutting coldness into
which a proud woman's slighted love is quickly transformed.
"What such an uncultivated person can be! That is what you wish to
say!" replied Freyer. "But there lies my excuse. Aye, I am a native of
the country, accustomed to break my fruit, wet with the morning-dew,
from the tree ere any hand has touched it, or pluck from the thorny
boughs in the dewy thicket the hidden berries which no human eye has
beheld;--I cannot understand how people can enjoy fruits that have been
uncovered for hours in the dust of the marketplace. The aroma is
gone--the freshness and bloom have vanished, and if given me--no matter
how costly it might be, I should not care for it--the wild berries in
the wood which smiled at me from the leafy dusk with their glittering
dewdrops, would please me a thousand times better! This is not meant
for a comparison, only an instance of how people feel when they live in
the country!"
"And to carry your simile further--if you believe that the fruit so
greatly desired has been kept for you alone--will it not please you to
possess what others long for in vain?"
"No," he said simply, "I am not envious enough to wish to deprive
others of anything they covet--but I will not share, so I would rather
resign!"
"Well, then--I have nothing more to say on that point--let us close the
conversation."
Both were silent a long time, as if exhausted by some great exertion.
"How is our--the child? Have you any news from Josepha?" the countess
asked at last.
"Yes, but unfortunately nothing good."
"As usual!" she answered, hastily; "it is her principle to make us
anxious. Such people take advantage of every opportunity to let us feel
their power. I know that."
"I do not think so. I must defend my cousin. She was always honest,
though blunt and impulsive," answered Freyer. "I fear she is writing
the truth, and the boy is really worse."
"Go there then, if you are anxious, and send me word how you find him."
"I will not travel at your expense--except in your service, and my own
means are not enough," replied Freyer in a cold, stern tone.
"Very well, this _is_ in my service. So--obey and go at my expense!"
Freyer gazed at her long and earnestly. "As your steward?" he asked in
a peculiar tone.
"I should like to have a truthful report--not a biassed one, as is
Josepha's custom," she replied evasively. "There is nothing to be done
on the estates now--I beg the 'steward' to represent my interests in
this matter. If you find the child really worse, I will get a leave of
absence and go to him."
"Very well, I will do as you order."
"But have the horses harnessed now, or it will be morning before I
return."
"Will it not be too fatiguing for you to return to-night? Shall I not
wake the house-maid to prepare your room and wait on you!"
"No, I thank you."
"As you choose," he said, quietly going to order the horses, which had
hardly been taken from the carriage, to be harnessed again. The
coachman remonstrated, saying that the animals had not had time to
rest, but Freyer replied that there must be no opposition to the
countess' will.
The half-hour which the coachman required was spent by the husband and
wife in separate rooms. Freyer was arranging on his desk a file of
papers relating to his business as steward; bills and documents for the
countess to look over. He worked as quietly as if all emotion was dead
within him. The countess sat alone in the dimly-lighted, comfortless
sitting room, gazing at the spot where her son's bed used to stand. Her
blood was seething with shame and wrath; yet the sight of the empty
wall where the boy no longer held out his arms to her from the little
couch, was strangely sad--as if he were dead, and his corpse had
already been borne out. Her heart was filled with grief, too bitter to
find relief in tears, they are frozen at such a moment. She would fain
have called his name amid loud sobs, but something seemed to stand
beside her, closing her lips and clutching her heart with an iron hand,
the _vengeance_ of the sorely insulted woman. Then she fancied she saw
the child fluttering toward her in his little white shirt. At the same
moment a door burst open, a draught of air swept through the room,
making her start violently--and at the same moment a star shot from the
sky, so close at hand, that it appeared as if it must dart through the
panes and join its glittering fellows on the countess' breast.
What was that? A gust of wind so sudden, that it swept through the
closed rooms, burst doors open, and appeared to hurl the stars from the
sky? Yet outside all was still; only the wainscoting and beams of the
room creaked slightly--popular superstition would have said: "Some
death has been announced!" The excited woman thought of it with secret
terror. Was it the whir of the spindle from which one of the Fates
had just cut the thread of life? If it were the life-thread of her
child--if at that very hour--her blood congealed to ice! She longed to
shriek in her fright, but again the gloomy genius of vengeance sealed
her lips and heart. _If_ it were--God's will be done. Then the last
bond between her and Freyer would be sundered. What could she do with
_this_ man's child? Nothing that fettered her to him had a right to
exist--if the child was dead, then she would be free, there would be
nothing more in common between them! He had slain her heart that day,
and she was slaying the last feeling which lived within it, love for
her child! Everything between them must be over, effaced from the
earth, even the child. Let God take it!
Every passionate woman who is scorned feels a touch of kinship with
Medea, whose avenging steel strikes the husband whom it cannot reach
through the children, whether her own heart is also pierced or not.
Greater far than the self-denial of _love_ is that of _hate_, for it
extends to self-destruction! It fears no pain, spares neither itself
nor its own flesh and blood, slays the object of its dearest love to
give pain to others--even if only in _thought_, as in the modern realm
of culture, where everything formerly expressed in deeds of violence
now acts in the sphere of mental life.
It was a terrible hour! From every corner of the room, wherever she
gazed, the boy's large eyes shone upon her through the dusk, pleading:
"Forgive my father, and do not thrust me from your heart!" But in vain,
her wrath was too great, her heart was incapable at that moment of
feeling anything else. Everything had happened as it must; she had
entered an alien, inferior sphere, and abandoned and scorned her own,
therefore the society to which she belonged now exiled her, while she
reaped in the sphere she had chosen ingratitude and misunderstanding.
Now, too late, she was forced to realize what it meant to be chained
for life to an uneducated man! "Oh, God, my punishment is just,"
murmured an angry voice in her soul, "in my childish defiance I
despised all the benefits of culture by which I was surrounded, to make
for myself an idol of clay which, animated by my glowing breath, dealt
me a blow in the face and returned to its original element! I have
thrown myself away on a man, to whom any peasant lass would be dearer!
Why--why, oh God, hast Thou lured me with Thy deceitful mask into the
mire? Dost Thou feel at ease amid base surroundings? I cannot follow
Thee there! A religion which stands on so bad a footing with man's
highest blessings, culture and learning, can never be _mine_. Is it
divine to steal a heart under the mask of Christ and then, as if in
mockery, leave the deceived one in the lurch, after she has been caught
in the snare and bound to a narrow-minded, brutal husband? Is this
God-like? Nay, it is fiendish! Do not look at me so beseechingly,
beautiful eyes of my child, I no longer believe even in you! Everything
which has hitherto bound me to your father has been a lie; you, too,
are an embodied falsehood. It is not true that Countess Wildenau has
mingled her noble blood with that of a low-born man; that she has given
birth to a bastard, wretched creature, which could be at home in no
sphere save by treachery! No--no, I cannot have forgotten myself so
far--it is but a dream, a phantasy of the imagination and when I awake
it will be on the morning of that August day in Ammergau after the
Passion Play. Then I shall be free, can wed a noble man who is my peer,
and give him legitimate heirs, whose mother I can be without a blush!"
What was that? Did her ears deceive her? The hoof-beats of a horse,
rushing up the mountain with the speed of the wind. She hurried to the
window. The clock was just striking two. Yes! A figure like the wild
huntsman was flitting like a shadow through the night toward the
castle. Now he turned the last curve and reached the height and the
countess saw distinctly that he was her cornier. What news was he
bringing--what had happened--at so late an hour?
Was the evil dream not yet over?
What new blow was about to strike her?
"What you desired--nothing else!" said the demon of her life.
The courier checked his foaming horse before the terrace. The countess
tried to hurry toward him, but could not leave the spot. She clung
shuddering to the cross-bars of the window, which cast its long black
shadow far outside.
Freyer opened the door; Madeleine heard the horseman ask: "Is the
Countess here?"
"Yes!" replied Freyer.
"I have a telegram which must be signed, the answer is prepaid."
Freyer tore off the envelope. "Take the horse round to the stable, I
will attend to everything."
He entered and approached the door, through which the child had come to
his mother's aid the last time she was there, to protect her from
Josepha. The countess fancied that the little head must be again thrust
in! But it was only Freyer with the despatch. The countess mechanically
signed her name to the receipt as if she feared she could not do so
after having read the message. Then, with a trembling hand, she opened
the telegram, which contained only the words:
"Our angel has just died, with his mother's name on his lips. Please
send directions for the funeral.
"Josepha."
A cry rang through the room like the breaking of a chord--a death-like
silence followed. The countess was on her knees, with her face bowed on
the table, her hand clasping the telegram, crushed before the God whose
might she felt for the first time in her life, whom only a few moments
before she had blasphemed and defied. He had taken her at her word, and
her words had condemned her. The child, the loyal child who had died
with her name on his lips, she had wished but a few minutes before that
God would take out of the world--she could betray him for the sake of
an aristocratic legitimate brother, who never had existed. She could
think of his death as something necessary, as her means of deliverance?
Now the child _had_ released her. Sensitive and modest, he had removed
the burden of his poor little life, which was too much for her to bear
and vanished from the earth where he found no place--but his last word
was the name of all love, the name "mother!" He had not asked "have you
fulfilled a mother's duties to me?--have you loved me?" He had loved
his mother with that sweet child-love, which demands nothing--only
gives.
And she, the avaricious mother, had been niggardly with her love--till
the child died of longing. She had let it die and did not bestow the
last joy, press the last kiss upon the little mouth, permit the last
look of the seeking eyes to rest upon the mother's face!
Outraged nature, so long denied, now shrieked aloud, like an animal for
its dead young! But the brute has at least done its duty, suckled its
offspring, warmed and protected it with its own body, as long as it
could. But she, the more highly organized creature--for only human
beings are capable of such unnatural conduct--had sacrificed her child
to so-called higher interests, had neither heeded Josepha's warning,
nor the voice of her own heart. Now came pity for the dead child, now
she would fain have taken it in her arms, called it by every loving
name, cradled the weary little head upon her breast. Too late! He had
passed away like a smiling good genius, whom she had repulsed--now she
was alone and free, but free like the man who falls into a chasm
because the rope which bound him to the guide broke. She had not known
that she possessed a child, while he lived, now that he was dead she
knew it. _Maternal joy_ could not teach her, for she had never
experienced it--_maternal grief_ did--and she was forced to taste it to
the dregs. Though she writhed in her torture, burying her nails in the
carpet as if she would fain dig the child from the ground, she could
find no consolation, and letting her head sink despairingly, she
murmured: "My child--you have gone and left me with a guilt that can
never be atoned!"
"You can be my mother in Heaven," he had once said. This, too, was
forfeited; neither in Heaven nor on earth had she a mother's rights,
for she had denied her child, not only before the world but, during
this last hour, to herself also.
Freyer bore the dispensation differently. To him it was no punishment,
but a trial, the inevitable consequence of unhappy, unnatural
relations. He could not reproach himself and uttered no reproaches to
others. He was no novice in suffering and had one powerful consolation,
which she lacked: the perception of the divinity of grief--this made
him strong and calm! Freyer leaned against the window and gazed upward
to the stars, which were so peacefully pursuing their course. "You were
far away from me when you lived in a foreign land, my child--now you
are near, my poor little boy! This cold earth had no home for you! But
to your father you will still live, and your glorified spirit will
brighten my path--the dark one I must still follow!" Tears flowed
silently down his cheeks. No loud lamentations must profane his great,
sacred anguish. With clasped hands he mutely battled it down and as of
old on the cross his eyes appealed to those powers ever near the
patient sufferer in the hour of conflict. However insignificant and
inexperienced he might be in this world, he was proportionally lofty
and superior in the knowledge of the things of another.
"Come, rise!" he said gently to the bewildered woman, bending to help
her. She obeyed, but it was in the same way that two strangers, in a
moment of common disaster, lend each other assistance. The tie had been
severed that day, and the child's death placed a grave between them.
"I fear your sobbing will be heard downstairs. Will you not pray with
me?" said Freyer. "Do what we may, we are in God's hands and must
accept what He sends! I wish that you could feel how the saints aid a
soul which suffers in silence. Loud outcries and unbridled lamentations
drive them away! God does not punish us to render us impatient, but
patient." He clasped his hands: "Come, let us pray for our child!" He
repeated in a low tone the usual, familiar prayers for the dying--we
cannot always command words to express our feelings. An old formula
often stands us in good stead, when the agitation of our souls will not
suffer us to find language, and our thoughts, swept to and fro by the
tempest of feeling, gladly cling to a familiar form to which they give
new life.
The countess did not understand this. She was annoyed by the
commonplace phraseology, which was not hallowed to her by custom and
piety--she was contemptuous of a point of view which could find
consolation for _such_ a grief by babbling "trivialties." Freyer ended
his prayer, and remained a moment with his hands clasped on his breast.
Then he dipped his fingers in the holy water basin beside the place
where the child's couch had formerly stood and made the sign of the
cross over himself and the unresponsive woman. She submitted, but
winced as if he had cut her face with a knife and destroyed its beauty.
It reminded her of the hour in Ammergau when he made the sign of the
cross over her for the first time! Then she had felt enrolled by this
symbol in a mysterious army of sufferers and there her misery began.
"We must now arrange where we will have the child buried," said Freyer;
"I think we should bring him here, that we may still have our angel's
grave!"
"As you choose!" she said in an exhausted tone, wiping away her tears.
"It will be best for you to go and attend to everything yourself. Then
you can bring the--body!" The word again destroyed her composure. She
saw the child in his coffin with Josepha, the faithful servant who had
nursed him, beside it, and an unspeakable jealousy seized her
concerning the woman to whom she had so indifferently resigned all her
rights. The child, always so ready to lavish its love, was lying cold
and rigid, and she would give her life if it could rise once more,
throw its little arms around her neck, and say "my dear mother." "Pearl
of Heaven--I have cast you away for wretched tinsel and now, when the
angels have taken you again, I recognize your value." She tore the
jewels from her breast. "There, take these glittering stars of my
frivolous life and put them in his coffin--I never want to see them
again--let their rays be quenched in my child's grave."
"The sacrifice comes too late!" said Freyer, pushing the stones away.
He did not wish to be harsh, but he could not be untruthful. What was a
handful of diamonds flung away in a moment of impulse to the Countess
Wildenau? Did she seek to buy with them pardon for her guilt toward her
dead child? The father's aching heart could not accept _that_ payment
on account! Or was it meant for the symbol of a greater sacrifice--a
sacrifice of her former life? Then it came too late, too late for the
dead and for the living; it could not avail the former, and the latter
no longer believed in it!
She had understood him and the terrible accusation which he unwittingly
brought against her! Standing before him as if before a judge, she felt
that God was with him at that moment--but she was deserted, her angel
had left her, there was no pity for her in Heaven or on earth--save
from one person! The thought illumined the darkness of her misery.
There was but one who would pour balm upon her wounds, one who had
indulgence and love enough to raise the drooping head, pardon the
criminal--her noble, generous-hearted friend, the Prince! She would fly
to him, seek shelter from the gloomy spirit which had pursued her ever
since she conjured up in Ammergau the cruel God who asked such
impossible things and punished so terribly.
"Pray, order the carriage--I must leave here or I shall die."
Freyer glanced at the clock. "The half-hour Martin required is over, he
will be here directly."
"Is it only half an hour? Oh! God--is it possible--so much misery in
half an hour! It seems an eternity since the news came!"
"We can feel more grief in one moment than pleasure in a thousand
years!" answered Freyer. "It is probably because a just Providence
allots to each an equal measure of joy and pain--but the pain must be
experienced in this brief existence, while we have an eternity for joy.
Woe betide him, who does the reverse--keeps the pain for eternity and
squanders the joy in this world. He is like the foolish virgins who
burned their oil before the coming of the 'bridegroom.'"
The countess nodded. She understood the deep significance of Freyer's
words.
"But we of the people say that 'whom God loveth, He chasteneth,'" he
continued, "and I interpret that to mean that He _compels_ those whom
He wishes to save to bear their portion here below, that the joy may be
reserved for them in Heaven! To such favored souls He sends an angel
with the cup of wormwood and wherever it flees and hides--he finds it.
Nearer and nearer the angel circles around it on his dark pinions, till
it sinks with fatigue, and fainting with thirst like the Saviour on the
Cross--drinks the bitter draught as if it were the most delicious
refreshment."
The countess gazed into his face with timid admiration. He seemed to
her the gloomy messenger of whom he spoke, she fancied she could hear
the rustle of his wings as he drew nearer and nearer in ever narrowing
circles, till escape was no longer possible. Like a hunted animal she
took to flight--seeking deliverance at any cost. Thank Heaven, the
carriage! Martin was driving up. A cold: "Farewell, I hope you may gain
consolation and strength for the sad journey!" was murmured to the
father who was going to bring home the body of his dead child--then she
entered the carriage.
Freyer wrapped the fur robe carefully around the delicate form of his
wife, but not another word escaped his lips. What he said afterward to
his God, when he returned to the deserted house, Countess Wildenau must
answer for at some future day.