ON THE WAY TO THE CROSS.
It was Sunday. Again the throngs surged around the Passion Theatre,
more devout, more numerous than ever.
Slowly, as if his feet could scarcely support him, a tall figure,
strangely like one who no longer belongs to the number of the living,
tottered through the crowd to the door of the dressing-room, while all
reverently made way for him, yet every one perceived that it must be
the Christus! Whoever met his eye shuddered as if the incarnation of
woe had passed, as if he had seen the face of the god of sorrow.
Eight o'clock had struck, the cannon had announced the commencement of
the play, the waiting throng pressed in, crowding each other, and the
doors were closed.
Outside of the theatre it was silent and empty. The carriages had
driven away. The people who could get no tickets had dispersed. Only
the venders of photographs and eatables still sat in their booths,
listening idly and sleepily to the notes of the music, which came in
subdued tones through the board partition.
Suddenly the ground trembled slightly under the wheels of a carriage
driven at furious speed. A pair of horses covered with foam appeared in
the distance--in a few seconds a dusty victoria stopped before the
Passion Theatre.
"St, st!" said one of the box-tenders, appearing at the top of the
stairs and hurrying down to prevent farther disturbance.
"Can I get a ticket?" asked the lady in the carriage.
"I am very sorry--but unfortunately every seat is filled."
"Oh, Heaven! I lost an hour--one of the horses met with an accident, I
have driven all night--I beg you--I _must_ get in!"
The box-tender shrugged his shoulders. "Unfortunately it is
impossible!" he said with an offensively lofty manner.
"I am not accustomed to find anything which I desire impossible, so far
as it depends upon human beings to fulfill it," she answered haughtily.
"I will pay any price, no matter whether it is a thousand marks, more
or less--if you will get me even the poorest seat within the walls."
"It is not a question of price!" was the smiling answer. "If we had the
smallest space, we could have disposed of it a hundred times over
to-day."
"Then take me on the stage."
"Oh, it is no use to speak of that--no matter who might come--no one is
allowed there."
"Then announce me to the burgomaster--I will give you my card."
"I am very sorry, but I have no admittance to the stage during the
performance. In the long intermission at twelve o'clock you might be
announced, but not before."
The countess' heart throbbed faster and faster. She could hear the
notes of the music, she fancied she could distinguish the different
voices, yet she was not permitted to enter. Now came the shouts of
"Hosanna!"--yes, distinctly--that was the entry into Jerusalem, those
were the exulting throngs who attended him. If she could only look
through a chink--! Now, now it was still--then a voice--oh! she would
recognize those tones among thousands. A draught of air bore them to
her through the cracks in the walls. Yes, that was he; a tremor ran
through every limb--he was speaking.
The world hung on his lips, joy was in every eye, comfort in every
heart--within was salvation and she must stand without and could not go
to her own husband. But he was not her husband, that had been her own
wish. Now it was granted!
The "foolish virgin" outside the door burst into tears like a child.
The man who had just refused her request so coldly, pitied her: "If I
only knew how to help you, I would do so gladly," he said thoughtfully.
"I'll tell you! If it is so important come during the intermission, but
on _foot_, without attracting attention, to the rear entrance of the
stage--then I'll try to smuggle you in, even if it is only into the
passage for the chorus!"
"Oh, sir, I thank you!" said the countess with the look which a lost
soul might give to the angel who opened the gates of Paradise.
"I will be there punctually at twelve. Don't you think I might speak to
Herr Freyer during the intermission?" she asked timidly.
A smile of sorrowful pity flitted over the man's face. "Oh, he speaks
to no one. We are rejoiced every time that he is able to get through
the performance."
"Alas! is he so ill?"
"Yes," replied the man in a tone very low as if he feared the very air
might hear, "very ill."
Then he went up the stairs again to his post.
"Where shall we drive now?" asked Martin.
The countess was obliged to reflect a short time ere she answered. "I
think it would be best--to try to find a lodging somewhere--" she said
hesitatingly, still listening to the sounds from the theatre to learn
what was passing within, what scene they were playing--who was
speaking? "Drive slowly, Martin--" she begged. She was in no hurry now:
"Stop!" she called as Martin started; she had just heard a voice that
sounded like _his_! Martin made the horses move very slowly as he drove
on. Thus, at the most tardy pace, they passed around the Passion
Theatre and then in the opposite direction toward the village. At the
exit from the square an official notification was posted: "No Monday
performances will be given hereafter; Herr Freyer's health will not
permit him to play two days in succession."
The countess pressed her clasped hands upon her quivering heart. "Bear
it--it must be borne--it is your own fault, now suffer!"
A stranger in a private carriage, who was looking for lodgings on the
day everybody else was going away, was a welcome apparition in the
village. At every house to which she drove the occupants who remained
in it hastened to welcome her, but none of the rooms pleased her. For a
moment she thought of going to the drawing-master's, but there also the
quarters were too low and narrow--and she could not deceive herself,
the tie between her and Ludwig Gross was sundered--he could not forgive
what she had done to his friend; she avoided him as though he were her
judge. And besides--she wanted quiet rooms, where an invalid could
rest, and these were not easy to find now.
At last she discovered them. A plain house, surrounded by foliage, in a
secluded street, which had only two rooms on the ground floor, where
they could live wholly unseen and unheard. They were plain apartments,
but the ceilings were not too low, and the sunbeams shone through the
chinks of the green shutters with a warm, yet subdued light. A
peaceful, cheerful shelter.
She hired them for an indefinite time, and quickly made an agreement
with the elderly woman to whom they belonged. There was a little
kitchen also, and the woman was willing to do the cooking. So for the
next few days at least she had a comfortable home, and now would to
Heaven that she might not occupy it in despair.
"Well, now Your Highness is nicely settled," said old Martin, when the
housewife opened the shutters, and he glanced down from his box into
the pretty room: "I should like such a little home myself."
The countess ordered the luggage to be brought in.
"Where shall I put up, Your Highness?"
"Go to the old post-house, Martin!"
"Shan't I take you to the Passion Theatre?"
"No, you heard that I must walk there." Martin shook his head--this
seemed to him almost too humiliating to his proud mistress. But he did
not venture to make any comment, and drove off, pondering over his own
thoughts.
It was nine o'clock. Three hours before the long intermission. What
might not happen during that time? Could she wait, would not anxiety
kill her or rob her of her senses? But nothing could be done, she
_must_ wait. She could not hasten the hour on which depended life and
death, deliverance or doom.--The nocturnal ride, the fright occasioned
by the fiery horses which had upset the carriage and forced her to walk
to the next relay and thus lose a precious hour, her agitation beside
her father's sick bed, now asserted themselves, and she lay down on one
of the neat white beds in the room and used the time to rest and
recover her strength a little. She was only a feeble woman, and the
valiant spirit which had so long created its own law and battled for
it, was too powerful for a woman's feeble frame. It was fortunate that
she was compelled to take this rest, or she would have succumbed. A
restless slumber took possession of her at intervals, from which she
started to look at the clock and mournfully convince herself that not
more than five minutes had elapsed.
The old woman brought in a cup of coffee, which she pressed upon her.
No food had passed her lips since the day before, and the warm drink
somewhat revived her. But the rapid throbbing of her heart soon
prevented her remaining in bed, and rising, she busied herself a little
in unpacking--the first time in her life that she had ever performed
such work. She remembered how she had wept ten years ago in the Gross
house, because she was left without a maid.
At last the time of torture was over. The clock struck quarter to
twelve. She put on her hat, though it was still far too early, but she
could not bear to stay in the room. She wished at least to be near the
theatre. When she reached the door her breath failed, and she was
obliged to stop and calm herself. Then, summoning all her courage, she
raised her eyes to Heaven, and murmuring: "In God's name," went to meet
the terrible uncertainty.
Now she repented that she did not use the carriage--she could scarcely
move. It seemed at every step as if she were sinking into the earth
instead of advancing, as if she should never reach the goal, as if the
road stretched longer and longer before her. A burning noonday sun
blazed down upon her head, the perspiration stood on her forehead
and her lips were parched, her feet were swollen and lame from the
night-watch at her father's bedside and the exhausting journey which
had followed it. At last, with much effort she reached the theatre. The
first part of the performance was just over--throngs of people were
pouring out of the sultry atmosphere into the open air and hurrying to
get their dinners. But every face wore a look of the deepest emotion
and sorrow--on every lip was the one word: "Freyer!" The countess stole
through the throngs like a criminal, holding her sunshade lower and
drawing her veil more closely over her face. Only let her escape
recognition now, avoid meeting any one who would speak to her--this was
her mortal dread. If she could only render herself invisible! With the
utmost exertion she forced her way through, and now she could at least
take breath after the stifling pressure. But everything around her
was now so bare, she was so exposed as she crossed the broad open
space--she felt as though she were the target for every curious eye
among the spectators. She clenched her teeth in her embarrassment--it
was fairly running the gauntlet. She could no longer think or feel
anything except a desire that the earth would swallow her. At last,
tottering, trembling, almost overcome by heat and haste, she reached
the welcome shade on the northern side of the theatre and stopped, this
was her goal. Leaning against the wall, she half concealed herself
behind a post at the door. Women carrying baskets passed her; they were
admitted because they were bringing their husbands' food. They glanced
curiously at the dusty stranger leaning wearily behind the door. "Who
can she be? Somebody who isn't quite right, that's certain!" The
tortured woman read this query on every face. Here, too, she was in a
pillory. Oh, power and rank--before the wooden fence surrounding the
great drama of Christian thought, you crumble and are nothing save what
you are in and through love!
The Countess Wildenau waited humbly at the door of the Passion Theatre
until the compassionate box-opener should come to admit her.
How long she stood there she did not know. Burning drops fell from brow
and eyes, but she endured it like a suffering penitent. This was _her_
way to the cross.
The clock struck one. The flood was surging back from the village: "Oh,
God, save me!" she prayed, trembling; her agony had reached its height.
But now the man could not come until everyone was seated.
And Freyer, what was he doing in his dressing-room, which she knew he
never left during an intermission? Was he resting or eating some
strengthening food? Probably one of the women who passed had taken him
something? She envied the poor women with their baskets because they
were permitted to do their duty.
Then--she scarcely dared to believe it--the box-opener came running
out.
"I've kept you waiting a long time, haven't I? But every one has had
his hands full. Now come quick!"
He slipped stealthily forward, beckoning to her to follow, and led her
through by-ways and dark corners, often concealing her with his own
person when anyone approached. The signal for raising the curtain was
given just as they reached a hidden corner in the proscenium, where the
chorus entered. "Sit down there on the stool," he whispered. "You can't
see much, it is true, but you can hear everything. It's not a good
place, yet it's better than nothing."
"Certainly!" replied the countess, breathlessly; she could not see,
coming from the bright sunshine into the dusky space; she sank half
fainting on the stool to which he pointed; she was on the stage of the
Passion, near Freyer! True, she said to herself, that he must not be
permitted to suspect it, lest he should be unable to finish his task;
but at least she was near him--her fate was approaching its
fulfillment.
"You have done me a priceless service; I thank you." She pressed a bank
note into the man's hand.
"No, no; I did it gladly," he answered, noiselessly retreating.
The exhausted woman closed her eyes and rested a few minutes from the
torture she had endured. The chorus entered, and opened the drama
again, a tableau followed, then the High Priest and Annas appeared in
the balcony of his house, Judas soon entered, but everything passed
before her like a dream. She could not see what was occurring on her
side of the stage.
Thus lost in thought, she leaned back in her dark corner, forgetting
the present in what the next hours would bring, failing to hear even
the hosannas. But now a voice startled her from her torpor.--"I
spake openly to the world; I ever taught in the synagogue and in the
temple--"
Merciful Heaven, it was he! She could not see him, the side scenes
concealed him; but what a feeling! His voice, which had so often
spoken to her words of love, entreaty, warning, lastly of wrath and
despair--without heed from her, without waking an echo in her cold
heart, now pealed like an angel's message into the dark corner
where she sat concealed like a lost soul that had forfeited the sight
of the Redeemer! She listened eagerly to the marvellous tones of the
words no longer addressed to her while the speaker's face remained
concealed--the face on which, in mortal dread, she might have read the
runes engraved by pain, and learned whether they meant life or death?
And yet, at least she was near him; so near that she thought he must
hear the throbbing of her own heart.
"Bear patiently; do not disturb him in his sacred fulfillment of duty.
It will soon be over!"
The play seemed endlessly long to her impatient heart. Christ was
dragged from trial to trial. The mockery, the scourging, the
condemnation--the tortured woman shared them all with him as she had
done the first time, but to-day it was like a blind person. She had not
yet succeeded in seeing him, he always stood so that she could never
catch a glimpse of his face. Would he hold out? She fancied that his
voice grew weaker hour by hour. And she dared not tend him, dared not
offer him any strengthening drink, dared not wipe the moisture from his
brow. She heard the audience weeping and sobbing--the scene of bearing
the cross was at hand!
The sky had darkened, and heavy sultry clouds hung low, forming natural
soffits to the open front stage, as if Heaven desired to conceal it
from the curious gods, that they might not see what was passing to-day.
Mary and John--the women of Jerusalem and Simon of Cyrene assembled,
waiting in anxious suspense for the coming of the Christ. Anastasia was
again personating Mary, the countess instantly recognized her pure,
clear tones, and the meeting in the fields ten years before came back
to her mind--not without a throb of jealous emotion. Now a movement
among the audience announced the approach of the procession--of the
cross! This time the actors came from the opposite direction and upon
the front stage. Every vein in her body was throbbing, her brain
whirled, she struggled to maintain her composure; at last she was to
see him for the first time!
"It is he, oh God!--it is my son!" cried Mary. Christ stepped upon the
stage, laden with the cross. It was acting no longer, it was reality.
His feet could scarcely support him under the burden, panting for
breath, he dragged himself to the proscenium. The countess uttered a
low cry of alarm; she fancied that she was looking into the eyes of a
dying man, so ghastly was his appearance. But he had heard the
exclamation and, raising his head, looked at her, his emaciated face
quivered--he tottered, fell--he _was obliged_ to fall; it was in his
part.
The countess shuddered--it was too natural!
"He can go no farther," said the executioner. "Here, strengthen
yourself." The captain handed him the flask, but he did not take it.
"You won't drink? Then drive him forward."
The executioners shook him roughly, but Freyer did not stir--he _ought_
not to move yet.
Simon of Cyrene took the cross on his shoulders, and now the
Christ should have risen, but he still lay prostrate. The cue was
given--repeated--a pause followed--a few of the calmer ones began to
improvise, the man who was personating; the executioner stooped and
shook him, another tried to raise him--in vain. An uneasy movement ran
through the audience--the actors gathered around and gazed at him. "He
is dead! It has come upon us!" ran in accents of horror from lip to
lip.
An indescribable confusion followed. The audience rose tumultuously
from the seats. Caiaphas, the burgomaster, ordered in a low tone: "To
the central stage--every one! Quick--and then drop the curtain!" But no
one heard him: He bent over the senseless figure. "It is only an attack
of faintness," he called to the audience, but the excitement could no
longer be allayed--all were pressing across the orchestra to the stage.
The countess could bear it no longer--rank and station, the
thousands of curious eyes to which she would expose herself were all
forgotten--there is a cosmopolitanism which unites mortals in a common
brotherhood more closely than anything else--a mutual sorrow.
"Freyer, Freyer!" she shrieked in tones that thrilled every nerve of
the bystanders: "Do not die--oh, do not die!" Rushing upon the stage,
she threw herself on her knees beside the unconscious form.
"Ladies and gentlemen--I must beg you to clear the stage"--shouted
Caiaphas to the throng, and turning to the countess, whom he
recognized, added: "Countess Wildenau--I can permit no stranger to
enter, I _must_ beg you to withdraw."
She drew herself up to her full height, composed and lofty--an
indescribable dignity pervaded her whole bearing: "I have a right to be
here--I am his wife!"