RECEIVED AGAIN.
All through the morning the street where Ludwig's house stood was
crowded with people. Toward noon a whisper ran through the throng: "He
is coming!" and Freyer appeared. Many pressed forward curiously but
shrank back again as Freyer drew near. "Good Heavens, how he looks!"
Freyer tottered past them, raising his hat in greeting, but spite of
his modest bearing and simple garb he seemed to have become so
aristocratic a gentleman, that no one ventured to accost him. Something
emanating from him inspired reverence, as if--in the presence of the
dead. He was dead--at least to the world. The people felt this and the
gossip suddenly ceased--the parties formed in an envious or malicious
spirit were reconciled.
"He won't live long!" This was the magic spell which soothed all
contention. If he had any sin on his conscience, he would soon atone
for it, if he had more money than the rest, he must soon "leave it
behind," and if he desired to take a part he could not keep it long!
Only the children who meanwhile had grown into tall lads and lasses ran
trustfully to meet him, holding out their hands with the grace and
charm peculiar to the Ammergau children. And because the grown people
followed him, the little ones did the same. He stopped and talked with
them, recognizing and calling by name each of the older ones, while
their bright eyes gazed searchingly into his, as sunbeams pierce dark
caverns. "Have you been ill, Herr Freyer?"
"No, my dear children--or yes, as people may regard it, but I shall get
well with you!" And, clasping half a dozen of the little hands in his,
he walked on with them.
"Will you play the divine friend of children with us again?" asked one
of the larger girls beseechingly.
"When Christmas comes, we will all play it again!" A strange smile
transfigured Freyer's features, and tears filled his eyes.
"Will you stay with us now?" they asked.
"Yes!" It was only a single word, but the children felt that it was a
vow, and the little band pressed closer and closer around him: "Yes,
now you must never go away!"
Freyer lifted a little boy in his arms and hid his face on the child's
breast: "No, _never_, _never_ more!"
A solemn silence reigned for a moment. The grief of a pure heart is
sacred, and a child's soul feels the sacredness. The little group
passed quietly through the village, and the children formed a
protecting guard around him, so that the grown people could not hurt
him with curious questions. The children showed their parents that
peace must dwell between him and them--for the Ammergau people knew
that in their children dwelt the true spirit which they had lost to a
greater or less degree in the struggle for existence. The _children_
had adopted him--now he was again at home in Ammergau; no parish
meeting was needed to give him the rights of citizenship.
The little procession reached the town-hall. Freyer put the child he
was carrying on the ground--it did not want to leave him. The grown
people feared him, but the children considered him their own property
and were reluctant to give him up. Not until after long persuasion
would they let him enter. As he ascended the familiar stairs his heart
throbbed so violently that he was obliged to lean against the wall. A
long breath, a few steps more--then a walk through the empty council
room to the office, a low knock, the well-known "come in!"--and he
stood before the burgomaster. It is not the custom among the people of
Ammergau to rise when receiving each other. "Good-morning!" said the
burgomaster, keeping his seat as if to finish some pressing task--but
really because he was struggling for composure: "Directly!"
Freyer remained standing at the door.
The burgomaster went on writing. A furtive glance surveyed the figure
in his coat and shoes--but he did not raise his eyes to Freyer's face,
the latter would have seen it. At last he gained sufficient composure
to speak, and now feigned to be aware for the first time of the
new-comer's identity. "Ah, Herr Freyer!" he said, and the eyes of the
two men met. It was a sad sight to both.
The burgomaster, once so strong and stately, aged, shrunken,
prematurely worn. Freyer an image of suffering which was almost
startling.
"Herr Burgomaster, I do not know--whether I may still venture--"
"Pray take a chair, Herr Freyer," said the burgomaster.
Freyer did so, and sat down at some distance.
"You do not seem to have prospered very well," said the other, less to
learn the truth than to commence conversation.
"You doubtless see that."
"Yes----! I could have wished that matters had resulted differently!"
Both were silent, overpowered by emotion. At the end of a few minutes
the burgomaster continued in a low tone: "I meant so well by you--it is
a pity--!"
"Yes, you have _much_ to forgive me, no one knows that better than
I--but you will not reject a penitent man, if he wishes to make amends
for the wrong."
The burgomaster rubbed his forehead: "I do not reject you, but--I have
already told the drawing-master, I only regret that I can do nothing
for you. You are not ill--I cannot support you from the fund for the
sick and it will be difficult to accomplish anything with the parish."
"Oh, Herr Burgomaster, I never expected to be supported. Only, when I
arrived yesterday I was so weary that I could explain nothing to
Ludwig, otherwise he would surely have spared you and me the step which
his great sympathy induced him to take. The clothing with which you
have helped me out of embarrassment for the moment, I will gratefully
accept as _loaned_, but I hope to repay you later."
"Pray let us say no more about it!" answered the burgomaster, waving
his hand.
"Yes! For it can only shame me if you generously bestow material
aid--and yet cherish resentment against me in your heart for the wrong
I have done. What my sick soul most needs is reconciliation with you
and my home. And for that I _can_ ask."
"I am not implacable, Herr Freyer! You have done me no personal
wrong--you have merely injured the cause which lies nearest to my heart
of anything in the world. This is a grief, which must be fought down,
but for which I cannot hold you responsible, though it cost me health
and life. I feel no personal rancor for what had no personal intention.
If a man flings a stone at the image of a saint and unintentionally
strikes me on the temple, I shall not make him responsible for
that--but for having aimed at something which was sacred to others. To
_punish_ him for it I shall leave to a higher judge."
"Permit me to remain silent. You must regard the matter thus from your
standpoint, and I can show you no better one. The right of defense is
denied me. Only I would fain defend myself against the reproach that
what is sacred to others is not to me. Precisely because it is sacred
to me--perhaps more sacred than to others, I have sinned against it."
"That is a contradiction which I do not understand!"
"And I cannot explain!"
"Well, it is not my business to pry into your secrets and judge your
motives. I am not your confessor. I told you that I left God to judge
such things. My duty as burgomaster requires me to aid any member of
the parish to the best of my ability in matters pertaining to earning a
livelihood. If you will give me your confidence, I am ready to aid you
with advice and action. I don't know what you wish to do. You gave your
little property to our poor--do you wish to take it back?"
"Oh, never, Herr Burgomaster, I never take back what I give," replied
Freyer.
"But you will then find it difficult, more difficult than others, to
support yourself," the burgomaster continued. "You went to the
carving-school too late to earn your bread by wood-carving. You know no
trade--you are too well educated to pursue more menial occupations,
such as those of a day-laborer, street-sweeper, etc.--and you would be
too proud to live at the expense of the parish, even if we could find a
way of securing a maintenance for you. It is really very difficult, one
does not know what to say. Perhaps a messenger's place might be
had--the carrier from Linderhof has been ill a long time."
"Have no anxiety on that score, Herr Burgomaster. During my absence, I
devoted my leisure time mainly to drawing and modelling. I also read a
great deal, especially scientific works, so that I believe I could
support myself by carving, if I keep my health. If that fails, I'll
turn wood-cutter. The forest will be best for me. That gives me no
anxiety."
The burgomaster again rubbed his forehead. "Perhaps if the indignation
roused by your desertion has subsided, it may be possible to give you
employment at the Passion Theatre as superintendent, assistant, or in
the wardrobe room."
Freyer rose, a burning blush crimsoned his face, instantly
followed by a deathlike pallor. "You are not in earnest, Herr
Burgomaster--I--render menial service in the Passion--I? Then woe
betide the home which turns her sons from her threshold with mockery
and disgrace, when they seek her with the yearning and repentance of
mature manhood."
Freyer covered his face with his hands, grief robbed him of speech.
The burgomaster gave him a moment's time to calm himself. "Yes, Herr
Freyer, but tell me, do you expect, after all that has occurred, to be
made the Christus?"
"What else should I expect? For what other purpose should _I_ come here
than to aid the community in need, for my dead cousin Josepha received
a letter from one of our relatives here, stating that you had no
Christus and did not know what to do. It seemed to me like a summons
from Heaven and I knew at that moment where my place was allotted. Life
had no farther value for me--one thought only sustained me, to be
something to my _home_, to repair the injury I had done her, atone for
the sin I had committed--and this time I should have accomplished it. I
walked night and day, with one desire in my heart, one goal before my
eyes, and now--to be rejected thus--oh, it is too much, it is the last
blow!"
"Herr Freyer--I am extremely sorry, and can understand how it must
wound you, yet you must see yourself that we cannot instantly give a
man who voluntarily, not to say _wilfully_, deserted us and remained
absent so long that he has become a stranger, the most important part
in the Play when want forces him to again seek a livelihood in
Ammergau."
"I am become a stranger because I remained absent ten years? May God
forgive you, Herr Burgomaster. We must both render an account to Him of
our fulfilment of His sacred mission--He will then decide which of us
treasured His image more deeply in his heart--you here--or I in the
world outside."
"That is very beautiful and sounds very noble--but, Herr Freyer, you
_prove_ nothing by your appeal to God, He is patient and the day which
must bring this decision is, I hope, still far distant from you and
myself!"
"It is perhaps nearer to me than you suppose, Herr Burgomaster!"
"Such phrases touch women, but not men, Herr Freyer!"
Freyer straightened himself like a bent bush which suddenly shakes off
the snow that burdened it. "I have not desired to touch any one, my
conscience is clear, and I do not need to appeal to your compassion. A
person may be ill and feeble enough to long for sympathy, without
intending to profit by it. I thought that I might let my heart speak,
that I should be understood here. I was mistaken. It is not _I_ who
have become estranged from my home--home has grown alienated from me
and you, as the ruling power in the community, who might mediate
between us, sever the last bond which united me to it. Answer for it
one day to Ammergau, if you expel those who would shed their heart's
blood for you, and to whom the cause of the Passion Play is still an
earnest one."
"Oh, Herr Freyer, it would be sad indeed if we were compelled to seek
earnest supporters of our cause in the ranks of the deserters--who
abandoned us from selfish motives."
"Herr Burgomaster!--" Freyer reflected a moment--it was difficult to
fathom what was passing in his mind--it seemed as if he were gathering
strength from the inmost depths of his heart to answer this accusation.
"It is a delicate matter to speak in allegories, where deeds are
concerned--you began it out of courtesy to me--and I will continue from
the same motive, though figurative language is not to my taste--we
strike a mark in life without having aimed! But to keep to your simile:
I have only deserted in my own person, if you choose to call it so, and
have now voluntarily returned--But you, Herr Burgomaster, how have you
guarded, in my absence, the fortress entrusted to your care?"
The burgomaster flushed crimson, but his composure remained unshaken:
"Well?"
"You have opened your gates to the most dangerous foes, to everything
which cannot fail to destroy the good old Ammergau customs; you have
done everything to attract strangers and help Ammergau in a business
way--it was well meant in the material sense--but not in the ideal one
which you emphasize so rigidly in my case! The more you open Ammergau
to the influences of the outside world, the more the simplicity, the
piety, the temperance will vanish, without which no great work of faith
like the Passion Play is possible. The world has a keen appreciation of
truth--the world believes in us because we ourselves believe in it--as
soon as we progress so far in civilization that it becomes a farce to
our minds, we are lost, for then it will be a farce to the world also.
You intend to secure in the Landrath the cutting of a road through the
Ettal Mountain. That would be a great feat--one might say: 'Faith
removes mountains,' for on account of the Passion Play consent would
perhaps be granted, then your name, down to the latest times, would be
mentioned in the history of Ammergau with gratitude and praise. But do
you know what you will have done? You will have let down the drawbridge
to the mortal foe of everything for which you battle, removed the wall
which protected the individuality of Ammergau and amid all the changes
of the times, the equalizing power of progress, has kept it that
miracle of faith to which the world makes pilgrimages. For a time the
world will come in still greater throngs by the easier road--but in a
few decades it will no longer find the Ammergau it seeks--its flood
will have submerged it, washed it away, and a new, prosperous, politic
population will move upon the ruins of a vanished time and a buried
tradition.
"Freyer!" The burgomaster was evidently moved: "You see the matter in
too dark colors--we are still the old people of Ammergau and God will
help us to remain so."
"No, you are so no longer. Already there are traces of a different,
more practical view of life--of so-called progress. I read to-day at
Ludwig's the play-bills of the practise theatre which you have
established during the last ten years since the Passion Play! Herr
Burgomaster, have you kept in view the seriousness of the mission of
Ammergau when you made the actors of the Passion buffoons?"
"Freyer!" The burgomaster drew himself up haughtily.
"Well, Herr Burgomaster, have you performed no farces, or at least
comic popular plays? Was the Carver of Ammergau--which for two years
you had _publicly_ performed on the consecrated ground of the Passion
Theatre, adapted to keep the impression of the Passion Play in the
souls of the people of Ammergau? No--the last tear of remembrance which
might have lingered would be dried by the exuberant mirth, which once
roused would only too willingly exchange the uncomfortable tiara for
the lighter fool's cap! And you gave the world this spectacle, Herr
Burgomaster, you showed the personators of the story of our Lord and
Saviour's sufferings in this guise to the strangers, who came, still
full of reverence, to see the altar--on which the sacred fire had
smouldered into smoke! I know you will answer that you wished to give
the people a little breathing space after the terrible earnestness of
the Passion Play and, from your standpoint, this was prudent, for you
will be the gainer if the community is cheerful under your rule. Happy
people are more easily governed than grave, thoughtful ones! I admit
that you have no other desire than to make the people happy according
to your idea, and that your whole ambition is to leave Ammergau great
and rich. But, Herr Burgomaster, you cannot harmonize the two objects
of showing the world, with convincing truth, the sublime religion of
pain and resignation, and living in ease and careless frivolity. The
divine favor cannot be purchased without the sacrifice of pleasure and
personal comfort, otherwise we are merely performing a puppet show with
God, and His blessing will be withdrawn."
Freyer paused and stood gazing into vacancy with folded arms.
The burgomaster watched him calmly a long time. "I have listened to you
quietly because your view of the matter interested me. It is the idea
of an enthusiast, a character becoming more and more rare in our
prosaic times. But pardon me--I can give it only a subjective value.
According to your theory, I must keep Ammergau, as a bit of the Middle
Ages, from any contact with the outside world, rob it of every aid in
the advancement of its industrial and material interests in order, as
it were, to prepare the unfortunate people, by want and trouble, to be
worthy representatives of the Passion. This would be admirable if,
instead of Burgomaster of Ammergau, I were Grand Master of an Order for
the practice of spiritual asceticism--and Ammergau were a Trappist
monastery. But as burgomaster of a secular community, I must first of
all provide for its prosperity, and that this would produce too much
luxury there is not, as yet, unfortunately, the slightest prospect! My
task as chief magistrate of a place is first to render it as great,
rich, and happy as possible, that is a direct obligation to the village
and an indirect one to the State. Not until I have satisfied _this_ can
I consider the more ideal side of my office--in my capacity as director
of the Passion Play. But even there I have no authority to exercise any
moral constraint in the sense of your noble--but fanatical and
unpractical view. You must have had bitter experiences, Herr Freyer,
that you hold earthly blessings so cheap, and you must not expect to
convert simple-hearted people, who enjoy their lives and their work, to
these pessimistic views, as if we could serve our God only with a
troubled mind. We must let a people, as well as a single person, retain
its individuality. I want to rear no hypocrites, and I cannot force
martyrdom on any one, in order to represent the Passion Play more
naturally. Such things cannot be enforced."
"For that very reason you need people who will do them voluntarily! And
though, thank Heaven, they still exist in Ammergau, you have not such
an over supply that you need repel those who would fain increase the
little band. Believe me, I have lived in closer communion with my home
in the outside world than if I had remained here and been swayed by the
various opposing streams of our brothers' active lives! Do you know
where the idea of the Passion Play reveals itself in its full beauty?
Not here in Ammergau--but in the world outside--as the gas does not
give its light where it is prepared, but at a distance. Therefore, I
think you ought not to measure a son of Ammergau's claim according to
the time he has spent here, but according to the feeling he cherishes
for Ammergau, and in this sense even _the stranger_ may be a better
representative of Ammergau than the natives of the village themselves."
"Yes, Freyer, you are right--but--_one_ frank word deserves another.
You have surprised and touched me--but although I am compelled to make
many concessions to circumstances and the spirit of the times, which
are in contradiction to my own views and involve me in conflicts with
myself, of which you younger men probably have no idea--nothing in the
world will induce me to be faithless to my principles in matters
connected with the Passion. Forgive the harsh words, Freyer, but I must
say it: Your actions do not agree with the principles you have just
uttered, and you cannot make this contradiction appear plausible to any
one. Who will credit the sincerity of your moral rigor after you have
lived nine years in an equivocal relation with the lady with whom you
left us? Freyer, a man who has done _that_--can no longer personate the
Christ."
Freyer stood silent as a statue.
The burgomaster held out his hand--"You see that I cannot act
otherwise; do you not? Rather let the Play die out utterly than a
Christus on whom rests a stain. So long as you cannot vindicate
yourself--"
Freyer drew himself proudly: "And that I will never do!"
"You must renounce it."
"Yes, I must renounce it. Farewell, Herr Burgomaster!"
Freyer bowed and left the room--he was paler than when he entered, but
no sound betrayed the mortal anguish gnawing at his heart. The
burgomaster, too, was painfully moved. His poor head was burning--he
was sorry for Freyer, but he could not do otherwise.
Just as Freyer reached the door, a man hurried in with a letter, Freyer
recognized the large well-known chirography on the envelope as he
passed--Countess Wildenau's handwriting. His brain reeled, and he was
compelled to cling to the door post. The burgomaster noticed it.
"Please sit down a moment, Herr Freyer--the letter is addressed to me,
but will probably concern you."
The man retired. Freyer stood irresolute.
The burgomaster read the contents of the note at a glance, then handed
it to Freyer.
"Thank you--I do not read letters which are not directed to me."
"Very well, then I must tell you. The Countess Wildenau, not having
your address, requests me to take charge of a considerable sum of money
which I am to invest for you in landed property or in stocks, according
to my own judgment. You were not to hear of it until the gift had been
legally attested. But I deem it my duty to inform you of this."
Freyer stood calmly before him, with a clear, steadfast gaze. "I cannot
be forced to accept a gift if I do not desire it, can I?"
"Certainly not."
"Then please write to the countess that I can accept neither gifts nor
any kind of assistance from--strangers, and that you, as well as I,
will positively decline every attempt to show her generosity in this
way."
"Freyer!" cried the burgomaster, "will you not some day repent the
pride which rejects a fortune thus flung into your lap?"
"I am not proud--I begged my bread on my way here, Herr
Burgomaster--and if there were no other means of livelihood, I would
not be ashamed to accept the crust the poorest man would share with
me--but from Countess Wildenau I will receive nothing--I would rather
starve."
The burgomaster sprang from his chair and approached him. His gaunt
figure was trembling with emotion, his weary eyes flashed with
enthusiasm, he extended his arms: "Freyer--now you belong to us once
more--_now_ you shall again play the Christus."
Silently, in unutterable, mournful happiness, Freyer sank upon the
burgomaster's breast.
His home was appeased.