NEAR THE GOAL.
From that hour Magdalena Freyer never left her husband's bedside.
Though friends came in turn to share the night-watches, she remained
with them. After a few days the doctor said that unless an attack of
weakness supervened, the danger was over for the present, though he did
not conceal from her that the disease was incurable. She clasped her
hands and answered: "I will consider every day that I am permitted to
keep him a boon, and submissively accept what God sends."
After that time she always showed her husband a smiling face, and
he--perfectly aware of his condition--practiced the same loving
deception toward her. Thus they continued to live in the salutary
school of the most rigid self-control--she, bearing with dignity a sad
fate for which she herself was to blame--he in the happiness of that
passive heroism of Christianity, which goes with a smile to meet death
for others! An atmosphere of cheerfulness surrounded this sick-bed,
which can be understood only by one who has watched for months beside
the couch of incurable disease, and felt the gratitude with which every
delay of the catastrophe, every apparent improvement is greeted--the
quiet delight afforded by every little relief given the beloved
sufferer, every smile which shows us he feels somewhat easier.
This cup of anguish the penitent woman now drained to the dregs. True,
a friendly genius always stood beside it to comfort her: the hope that,
though not fully recovered, he might still be spared to her. "How many
thousands who have heart disease, with care and nursing live to grow
old." This thought sustained her. Yet the ceaseless anxiety and
sleepless nights exhausted her strength. Her cheeks grew hollow, dark
circles surrounded her eyes, but she did not heed it.
"I still please my husband!" she said smiling, in reply to all
entreaties to spare herself on account of her altered appearance.
"My dove!" Freyer said one evening, when Ludwig came for the
night-watch: "Now I must show a husband's authority and command you to
take some rest, you cannot go on in this way."
"Oh! never mind me--if I should die for you, what would it matter?
Would it not be a just atonement?"
"No--that would be no atonement," he said tenderly, pushing back the
light fringe of curls that shaded her brow, as if he wished to read her
thoughts on it: "My child, you must _live_ for me--that is your
atonement. Do you think you would do anything good if you expiated your
fault by death and said: 'There you have my life for yours, now we are
quits, you have no farther claim upon me!' Would that be love, my
dove?"
He drew her gently toward him: "Or would you prefer that we should be
quits _thus_, and that I should desire no other expiation from you than
your death?" She threw her arms around him, clasping him in a closer
and closer embrace. There was no need of speech, the happy, blissful
throbbing of her heart gave sufficient answer. He kissed her on the
forehead: "Now sleep, beloved wife and rest--do it for my sake, that I
may have a fresh, happy wife!"
She rose as obediently as a child, but it was hard for her, and she
nodded longingly from the door as if a boundless, hopeless distance
already divided them.
"Ludwig!" said Freyer, gazing after her in delight: "Ludwig, _is_ this
love?"
"Yes, by Heaven!" replied his friend, deeply moved: "Happy man, I would
bear all your sorrows--for one hour like this!"
"Have you now forgiven what she did to me?"
"Yes, from my very soul!"
"Magdalena," cried Freyer. "Come in again--you must know it before you
sleep--Ludwig is reconciled to you."
"Ludwig," said the countess: "my strict, noble friend, I thank you."
Leading him to the invalid, she placed their hands together. "Now we
are again united, and everything is just as it was ten years ago--only
I have become a different person, and a new and higher life is
beginning for me."
She pressed a kiss upon the brow of her husband and friend, as if to
seal a vow, then left them alone.
"Oh, Ludwig, if I could see you so happy!"
"Do not be troubled--whoever has experienced this hour with you, needs
nothing for himself," he answered, an expression of the loftiest, most
unselfish joy on his pallid face.
The countess, before retiring, sent for Martin who was still in
Oberammergau, awaiting her orders, and went out into the garden that
Freyer might not hear them talking in the next room. "Martin," she said
with quiet dignity, though there was a slight tremor in her voice, "it
is time for me to give some thought to worldly matters. During the last
few days I could do nothing but devote myself to the sick bed. Drive
home, my good Martin, and give the carriage and horses to the
Wildenaus. Tell them what has happened, if they do not yet know it, I
cannot write now. Meanwhile, you faithful old servant, tell them to
take all I have--my jewels, my palace, my whole private fortune. Only I
should like--for the sake of my sick husband--to have them leave me,
for humanity's sake, enough to get him what he needs for his recovery!"
here her voice failed.
"Countess--"
"Oh, don't call me that!"
"Yes--for the countess will always be what she is, even as Herr
Freyer's wife! I only wanted to say. Your Highness, that I wouldn't do
that. If I were you, I wouldn't give _them_ a single kind word. I'll
take back the carriage and horses and say that they can have everything
which belongs to you. But I won't beg for my Countess! I think it would
be less disgrace if you should condescend to accept something from a
plain man like myself, who would consider it an honor and whom you
needn't thank! I--" he laughed awkwardly: "I only want to say, if you
won't take offence--that I bargained for a little house to-day. But I
did it in your name, so that Your Highness needn't be ashamed to live
with me! I haven't any kith and kin and--and it will belong to you."
"Martin, Martin!" the proud woman humbly bent her head. "Be it so! You
shall help me, if all else abandons me. I will accept it as a loan from
you. I can paint--I will try to earn something, perhaps from one of the
fashion journals, to which I have always subscribed. The maid once told
me I might earn my living by it--it was a prophecy! So I can, God
willing, repay you at some future day."
"Oh, we won't talk about that!" cried Martin joyously, kissing the
countess' hands.
"If I may have a little room under the roof for myself--we'll call it
the interest. And I have something to spare besides, for--you must eat,
too."
The countess covered her face with her trembling hands.
"Now I'll drive home and in Your Highness' name throw carriage, horses,
and all the rest of the rubbish at the Wildenaus' feet--then I'll come
back and bring something nice for our invalid which can't be had
here--and my livery, for Sundays and holidays, so that we can make a
good appearance! And I'll look after the garden and house, and--do
whatever else you need. Oh, I've never been so happy in my life!"
He left her, and the countess stood gazing after him a long time,
deeply shamed by the simple fidelity of the old man, who wished to wear
her livery and be her servant, while he was really her benefactor: In
truth--high or low--human nature is common to all. Martin returned:
"Doesn't Your Highness wish to bid farewell to the horses? Shan't I
drive past, or will it make you feel too badly?"
"Beautiful creatures," a tone of melancholy echoed in her voice as she
spoke: "No, Martin, I don't want to see them again."
"Yes, yes--!" Martin had understood her, and pitied her more than for
anything else, for it seemed to him the hardest of sacrifices to part
with such beautiful horses.
The countess remained alone in the little garden. The stars were
shining above her head. She thought of the diamond stars which she had
once flung to Freyer in false atonement, to place in the dead child's
coffin--if she had them now to use their value to support her sick
husband--_that_ would be the fitting atonement.
"Only do not let _him_ starve, oh, God! If I were forced to see him
starve! Oh, God!--spare me that, if it can be!" she prayed, her eyes
uplifted with anxious care to the glittering star-strewn vault.
"How is he?" a woman's figure suddenly emerged from the shadow at her
side.
"Oh, Mary--Anastasia!"
"How is he?"
"Better, I think! He was very cheerful this evening!--"
"And you, Frau Freyer--how is it with you? It is hard, is it not? There
are things to which we must become accustomed."
"Yes."
"I can understand. But do not lose confidence--God is always with us.
And--I will pray to the Virgin Mary, whom I have so often personated!
But if there is need of anything where _human power_ can aid, I may
help, may I not?"
"Mary--angel, be my teacher--sister!"
"No, _mother_!" said Anastasia smiling: "For if Freyer is my son, you
must be my daughter. Oh, you two poor hearts, I am and shall now remain
your mother, Mary!"
"Mother Mary!"--the countess repeated, and the two women held each
other in a loving embrace.----
The week was drawing to a close, and the burgomaster was now obliged to
consider the question of the distribution of parts. He found the
patient out of bed and wearing a very cheerful, hopeful expression.
"I don't know, Herr Freyer, whether I can venture to discuss my
important business with you," he began timidly.
"Oh--I understand--you wish to know when I can play again? Next
Sunday."
"You are not in earnest?" said the burgomaster, almost startled.
"Not in earnest? Herr Burgomaster, what would be the value of all my
oaths, if I should now retreat like a coward? Do you think I would
break my word to you a second time, so long as I had breath in my
body?"
"Certainly not, so long as it is in your power to hold out. But this
time you _cannot_! Ask the doctor--he will not allow it so soon."
"Am I to ask _him_, when the question concerns the most sacred duty? I
will consult him about my life--but my duties are more than my life.
Only thus can I atone for the old sin which ten years ago made me a
renegade."
"And you say this now--when you are so happy?"
"Herr Burgomaster," replied Freyer with lofty serenity: "A man who has
once been so happy and so miserable as I, learns to view life from a
different standpoint! No joy enraptures, no misfortune terrifies him.
Everything to which we give these names is fluctuating, and only _one_
happiness is certain: to do one's duty--until death!"
"Herr Freyer! That is a noble thought, but if your wife should hear
it--would she agree?"
"Surely, for she thinks as I do--if she did not, we should never have
been united--she would never have cast aside wealth, rank, power, and
all worldly advantages to live with me in exile. Do you believe she did
so for any earthly cause? She thinks so--but I know better: The cross
allured her--as it does all who come in contact with it."
"What are you saying about the cross?" asked the countess, entering the
room: "Good-morning, Friend Burgomaster!"
"My wife! He will not believe that you would permit me to play the
Christus again--even should it cost my life?"
The countess turned pale with terror. "Oh, Heaven, are you thinking of
doing so?"
"Yes"--replied the burgomaster: "He will not be dissuaded from it!"
"Joseph!" said the countess mournfully: "Will you inflict this grief
upon me--now, when you have scarcely recovered?"
"I assure you that I have played the Christus when I felt far worse
than I do now--thanks to your self-sacrificing care, dear wife."
Tears filled the countess' eyes, and she remained silent.
"My dove, do we not understand each other?"
"Yes "--she said after a long, silent struggle: "Do it, my beloved
husband--give yourself to God, as I resign you to Him. He has only
loaned you to me, I dare not keep you from Him, if He desires to show
Himself again to the world in your form! I will cherish and tend and
watch over you, that you may endure it! And when you are taken down
from the cross, I will rub your strained limbs and bedew your burning
brow with the tears of all the sorrows Mary and Magdalene suffered for
the Crucified One, and--when you have rested and again raise your eyes
to mine with a smile, I will rest your head upon my breast in the
blissful feeling that you are no God Who will ascend to Heaven--but a
man, a tender, beloved man, and--_my own_. Oh, God cannot destroy such
happiness, and if He does, He will only draw you to Himself, that I may
therefore long the more fervently for you, for Him, Who is the source
of _all_ love--then--" her voice was stifled by tears as she laid her
head on his breast--"then your wife will not murmur, but wait silently
and patiently till she can follow you." Leaning on his breast, she wept
softly, clasping him in her arms that he might not be torn from her.
"Dear wife," he answered gently, and the wonderfully musical voice
trembled with the most sacred emotion, "we will accept whatever God
sends--loyal to the cross--you and I, beloved, high-hearted woman! Do
not weep, my dove! Being loyal to the cross does not mean only to be
patient--it means also to be strong! Does not the soldier go bravely to
death for an earthly king, and should not I joyfully peril my life for
my _God_?"
"Yes, my husband you are right, I will be strong. Go, then, holy
warrior, into the battle for the ideal and put yourself at the disposal
of your brave fellow combatants!" She slowly withdrew her arms from his
neck as if taking a long, reluctant farewell.
The burgomaster resolutely approached. "We people of Ammergau must bow
to this sacred zeal. This is indeed a grandeur which conquers death!
Whoever sees this effect of our modest Play on souls like yours cannot
be mistaken in believing that the power which works such miracles does
not emanate from men, and must proceed from a God. But as He is a God
of love. He will not accept your sacrifice. Freyer must not take the
part which might cost him his life. We will find a Christus elsewhere
and thus manage for this time."
Freyer fixed his eyes mournfully on the ground. "Now the crown has
indeed fallen from my head! God has no longer accepted me--I am shut
out from the sacred work!"
The burgomaster placed his wife in his arms: "Let it be your task now
to guard this soul and lead it to its destination--this, too, is a
sacred work!"
"Yes, and amen!" said Freyer.
* * *
The ex-countess and the former Christus, both divested of their
temporary dignity, verified his words, attaining in humility true
dignity! Freyer rallied under the care of his beloved wife, and they
used the respite allotted to them by leading a life filled with labor,
sacrifice, and gratitude toward God.
"You ask me, dear friend," the countess wrote a year later to the Duke
of Barnheim, "whether you can assist me in any way? I thank you for the
loyal friendship, but must decline the noble offer. Contentment does
not depend upon what we have, but what we need, and I have that, for my
wants are few. This is because I have obtained blessings, which
formerly I never possessed and which render me independent of
everything else. Much as God has taken from me. He has bestowed in
exchange three precious gifts: contempt for the vanities of the world,
appreciation of the little pleasures of life, and recognition of the
real worth of human beings. I am not even so poor as you imagine. My
faithful old Martin, who will never leave me, helped me out of the
first necessity. Afterwards the Wildenaus' were induced to give up my
private property, jewels, dresses, and works of art, and their value
proved sufficient to pay Martin for the little house he had purchased
for me and to establish for my husband a small shop for the sale of
wood-carving, so that he need not be dependent upon others. When he
works industriously--which he is only too anxious to do at the cost of
his delicate health--we can live without anxiety, though, of course,
very simply. I know how many of my former acquaintances would shudder
at the thought of such a prosaic existence! To them I would say that I
have learned not to seek poetry in life, but to place it there. Yes,
tell the mocking world that Countess Wildenau lives by her husband's
labor and is not ashamed of it! My friend! To throw away a fortune for
love of a woman is nothing--but to toil year in and year out, with
tireless fidelity and sacrifice, to earn a wife's daily bread in the
sweat of one's brow, _is_ something! Do you know what it is to a woman
to owe her life daily to her beloved husband? An indescribable
happiness! You, my friend, would have bestowed a principality upon me,
and I should have accepted it as my rightful tribute, without owing you
any special gratitude--but the hand which _toils_ for me I kiss every
evening with a thrill of grateful reverence.
"So do not grieve for me! Wed the lovable and charming Princess Amalie
of whom you wrote, and should you ever come with your young wife into
the vicinity of the little house surrounded by rustling firs, under the
shadow of the Kofel, I should be cordially glad to welcome you.
"Farewell! May you be as happy, my noble friend, as you deserve, and
leave to me my poverty and my _wealth_. You see that the phantom has
become reality--the ideal is attained.
"Your old friend
"Magdalena Freyer."
When the duke received this letter his valet saw him, for the first
time in his life, weep bitterly.
CONCLUSION.
FROM ILLUSION TO TRUTH.
For ten years God granted the loving wife her husband's life, it seemed
as if he had entirely recovered. At last the day came when He required
it again. For the third time the community offered Freyer the part of
the Christus. He was still a handsome man, and spite of his forty-eight
years, as slender as a youth, while his spiritual expression, chaste
and lofty--rendered him more than ever an ideal representative of
Christ God bestowed upon him the full cup of the perfection of his
destiny, and it was completed as he had longed. Not on a sick-bed
succumbing to lingering disease--but high on the cross, as victor over
pain and death. God had granted him the grace of at last completing the
task--he had held out this time until the final performance--then, when
they took him down from the cross for the last time under the falling
leaves, amid the first snow of the late autumn--he did not wake again.
On the cross the noble heart had ceased to beat, he had entered
into the peace of Him Whom he personated--passed from illusion to
truth--from the _copy_ to the _prototype_.
Never did mortal die a happier death, never did a more beautiful smile
of contentment rest upon the face of a corpse.
"It is finished! You have done in your way what your model did in His,
you have sealed the sacred lesson of love by your death, my husband!"
said the pallid woman who pressed the last kiss upon his lips.
The semblance had become reality, and Mary Magdalene was weeping beside
her Redeemer's corpse.
On the third day after the crucifixion, when the true Christ had risen,
Freyer was borne to his grave.
But, like the ph[oe]nix from its ashes, on that day the real Christ
rose from the humble sepulchre for the penitent.
"When wilt thou appear to me in the spring garden, Redeeming Love?" she
had once asked. Now she was--in the autumn garden--beside the grave of
all happiness.
When the coffin had been lowered and the pall-bearers approached the
worn, drooping widow, the burgomaster asked: "Where do you intend to
live now, Madame?"
"Where, except in Ammergau, here--where his foot has marked for me the
path to God? Oh, my Gethsemane!"
"But," said the pastor, "will you exile yourself forever in this quiet
village? Do you not wish to return to your own circle and the world of
culture? You have surely atoned sufficiently."
"Atoned? No, your Reverence, not atoned, for the _highest happiness_ is
no atonement--expiation is beginning _now_." She turned toward the
Christ which hung on the wall of the church, not far from the grave,
and extending her arms toward it murmured: "Now I have _nothing_ save
_Thee_! Thou hast conquered--idea of Christianity, thy power is
eternal!"----
The cloud of tears hung heavily over Ammergau, falling from time to
time in damp showers.
Evening had closed in. Through the lighted windows of the ground floor
of a little house, surrounded by rustling pines, two women were
visible, Mary and Magdalena. The latter was kneeling before the
"Mother" whose clasped hands were laid upon her head in comfort and
benediction.
The lamps in the low-roofed houses of the village were gradually
lighted. The peasants again sat in their ragged blouses on the carvers'
benches, toiling, sacrificing, and bearing their lot of poverty and
humility, proud in the consciousness that every ten years there will be
a return of the moment which strips off the yoke and lays the purple on
their shoulders, the moment when in their midst the miracle is again
performed which spreads victoriously throughout a penitent world--the
moment which brings to weary, despairing humanity peace and
atonement--_on the cross_.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: "Chips from a German Workshop." Vol. I. "Essays on the
Science of Religion."]
[Footnote 2: A dish made of flour and water fried in hot lard, but so
soft that it is necessary to serve and eat it with a spoon.]
[Footnote 3: A drama. Hamerling is better known in America as the
author of his famous novel "Aspasia."]
[Footnote 4: Part of these lines of Caedmon were put into modern
English by Robert Spence Watson.]
[Footnote 5: Frey is the god of peace. When its Mythological
significance was lost, it became an epithet of honor for princes and is
found frequently applied to our Lord and God the Father.]
THE END.