CHAPTER XXI.

UNACCOUNTABLE.

A moment--and a turning point in a life!

The countess was "herself" again, as she called it. "Thank God!"

The Ammergau episode--with all its tragic consequences--belonged to the

past. To-day, under the emotional impressions and external

circumstances at that luckless castle, where everything conspired

against her, she had thought seriously of breaking with her traditions

and the necessities of life, faced the thought of poverty and shame so

boldly that this appointment to the highest position at court saved her

from the gulf of ruin. Stopped at the last moment, tottering, giddy,

the startled woman sought to find a firm footing once more. She felt

like a suicide, who is not really in earnest, and rejoices when some

one prevents his design.

She stood holding the document in her hand. This was truth, reality,

the necessity for self-destruction was imagination. The disgrace whose

brand she already felt upon her brow could no longer approach her!

She set her foot upon the shaggy skin of a lion--the earth did not yet

reel beneath her. She pressed her burning brow against a slender marble

column--this, too, was still firm! She passed her slender fingers over

the silk plush of the divan on which she reclined and rejoiced that it

was still hers. Her eye, intoxicated with beauty, wandered over the

hundreds of art-treasures, pictures and statues from every land with

which she had adorned her rooms--nothing was lacking. Upon a pedestal

stood the Apollo Belvedere, whose pure marble glowed warmly in a

sunbeam shining through red curtains, as if real blood were circulating

in the stone. The wondrous face smiled in divine repose upon the motley

array, which the art and industry of centuries had garnered here.

The past and the present here closed their bewitching chain. Yonder

stood a Venus de Milo, revealing to the charming owner the majesty of

her own beauty. In a corner filled with flowers, a bathing nymph, by a

modern master, timidly concealed herself. In a Gothic niche a dying

Christ closed his eyes to the splendor of the world and the senses.

It was a Christ after the manner of Gabriel Max, which opened and

shut its eyes. Not far away the portrait of the countess, painted

with the genius of Lenbach stood forth from the dark frame--the

type of a drawing-room blossom. Clad in a soft white robe of Oriental

stuff embroidered with gold, heavy enough to cling closely to the

figure--flight enough to float away so far as to reveal all that

fashion and propriety permitted to be seen of the beauty of a wonderful

neck and arm. And, as Lenbach paints not only the outward form but the

inward nature, a tinge of melancholy, of yearning and thoughtfulness

rested upon the fair face, which made the beholder almost forget the

beauty of the form in that of the soul, while gazing into the spiritual

eyes which seemed to seek some other home than this prosaic earth. Just

in the direction of her glance, Hermes, the messenger of death, bent

his divine face from a group of palms and dried grasses. It seemed as

if she beheld all these things for the first time--as if they had been

newly given back to her that day after she had believed them lost. Her

breath almost failed at the thought that she had been on the point of

resigning it all--and for what? All these treasures of immortal beauty

and art--for a weeping child and a surly man, who loved in her only the

housewife, which any maid-servant can be, but understood what she

really was, what really constituted her dignity and charm no more than

he would comprehend Lenbach's picture, which reflected to her her own

person transfigured and ennobled. She gazed at herself with proud

satisfaction. Should such a woman sacrifice herself to a man who

scarcely knew the meaning of beauty! Destroy herself for an illusion of

the imagination? She rang the bell--she felt the necessity of ordering

something, to be sure that she was still mistress of the house.

The lackey entered. "Your Highness?"

Thank Heaven! Her servants still obeyed her.

"Send over to the Barnheim Palace, and invite the Prince to dine with

me at six. Then serve lunch."

"Very well. Has Your Highness any other orders?"

"The maid."

"Yes, Your Highness."

The man left the room with the noiseless, solemn step of a well-trained

lackey.

"How can any one live without servants?" the countess asked herself,

looking after him. "What should I have done, if I had dismissed mine?"

She shuddered. Now that regal luxury again surrounded her she was a

different person from this morning. No doubt she still felt what she

had suffered that day, but only as we dimly, after waking from a

fevered dream, realize the tortures we have endured.

Some one knocked, and the maid entered.

"I will take a bath before lunch. I feel very ill. Pour a bottle of

_vinaigre de Bouilli_ into the water. I will come directly."

The maid disappeared.

Everything still went on like clock-work. Nothing had changed--no one

noticed what she had _almost_ done that day. The struggle was over. The

royal order, which it would have been madness to oppose, had determined

her course.

But her nerves were still quivering from the experiences of the day.

The child, if only she were not hampered by the child! That was the

only thing which would not allow her to breathe freely--it was her own

flesh and blood. That was the wound in her heart which could never be

healed. She would always long for the boy--as he would for her. Yet,

what did this avail, nothing could be changed, she must do what reason

and necessity required. At least for the present; nay, there was even

something beautiful in a sorrow borne with aristocratic dignity! By the

depth of the wound, we proudly measure the depth of our own hearts.

She pleased herself with the idea of doing the honors as mistress of

ceremonies to kings and emperors, while yearning in the depths of

her soul for a poor orphaned child, the son of the proud Countess

Wildenau--whose husband was a peasant. Only a nature of the elasticity

of Madeleine von Wildenau's could sink so low and yet soar so high,

without losing its equilibrium.

These were the oscillations which Ludwig Gross once said were necessary

to such natures--though their radii passed through the lowest gulfs of

human misery to the opposite heights. Coquetry is not only cruel to

others, but to itself--in the physical tortures which it endures for

the sake of an uncomfortable fashion, and the spiritual ones with which

it pays for its triumphs.

This was the case with the countess. During her first unhappy marriage

she had learned to control the most despairing moods and be "amusing"

with an aching heart. What marvel that she deemed it a matter of course

that she must subdue the gnawing grief of her maternal love. So she

coquetted even with suffering and found pleasure in bearing it

gracefully.

She sat down at her writing-desk, crowned with Canova's group of Cupid

and Psyche, and wrote:

"My dear husband! In my haste I can only inform you that I shall be

unable to come out immediately to arrange Josepha's journey. I have

been appointed mistress of ceremonies to the queen and must obey the

summons. Meanwhile, let Josepha prepare for the trip, I will send the

directions for the journey and the money to-day. Give the boy my love,

kiss him for me, and comfort him with the promise that I will visit him

in the Riviera when I can. Amid the new scenes he will soon forget me

and cease waiting and expecting. The Southern climate will benefit his

health, and we shall have all the more pleasure in him afterward. He

must remain there at least a year to regain his strength.

"I write hastily, for many business matters and ceremonies must be

settled within the next few days. It is hard for me to accept this

position, which binds me still more closely in the fetters I was on the

eve of stripping off! But to make the king and queen my enemies at the

very moment when I need powerful friends more than ever, would be

defying fate! It will scarcely be possible for me now to come out as

often as I promised you to-day. But, if you become too lonely, you

can occasionally come in as my 'steward,' ostensibly to bring me

reports--in this way we shall see each other and I will give orders

that the steward shall be admitted to me at any time, and have a

suitable office and apartments assigned to him 'as I shall now be

unable to look after the estates so much myself.'

"If I cannot receive you at once, you will wait in your room until your

wife, freed from the restraint and duties of the day, will fly to your

arms.

"Is not this admirably arranged? Are you at last satisfied, you

discontented man?

"You see that I am doing all that is possible! Only do not be angry

with me because I also do what reason demands. I must secure to my

child the solid foundations of a safe and well-ordered existence, since

we must not, for the sake of sentiment, aimlessly shatter our own

destiny. How would it benefit the sick child if I denounced myself and

was compelled to give up the whole of my private fortune to compensate

my first husband's relatives for what I have spent illegally since

my second marriage? I could not even do anything more for my son's

health, and should be forced to see him pine away in some mountain

hamlet--perhaps Ammergau itself, whither I should wander with my

household goods and you, like some vagrant's family. The boys there

would stone him and call him in mockery, the 'little Count.' The

snow-storms would lash him and completely destroy his delicate lungs.

"No, if I did not fear poverty for _myself_, I must do so for _you_.

How would you endure to have the Ammergau people--and where else could

you find employment--point their fingers at you and say: 'Look, that is

Freyer, who ran away with a countess! He did a fine thing'--and then

laugh jeeringly.

"My Joseph! Keep your love for me, and let me have judgment for you,

then all will be well. In love,

Your M."

She did not suspect, when she ended her letter, very well satisfied

with her dialectics, that Freyer after reading it would throw the torn

fragments on the floor.

This cold, frivolous letter--this change from the mood of

yesterday--this act after all her promises! He had again been deceived

and disappointed, again hoped and believed in vain. All, all on which

he had relied was destroyed, the moral elevation of his beloved wife,

which would at last restore to her husband and child their sacred

rights--was a lie, and instead, by way of compensation, came the

offer--of the position of a lover.

He was to seek his wife under the cover of the darkness, as a man seeks

his inamorata--he, her husband, the father of her child! "No, Countess,

the steward will not steal into your castle, in order when you have

enjoyed all the pleasures of the day, to afford you the excitement of a

stolen intrigue.

"Though the scorn and derision of the people of my native village would

wound me sorely, as you believe--I would rather work with them as a

day-laborer, than to play before your lackeys the part which you assign

me." This was his only answer. He was well aware that it would elicit

only a shrug of the shoulders, and a pitying smile, but he could not

help it.

It was evening when the countess' letter reached him, and while, by the

dim light of the hanging lamp, in mortal anguish he composed at the

bedside of the feverish child this clumsy and unfortunately mis-spelled

reply, the folding-doors of the brilliantly lighted dining-room in the

Wildenau palace, were thrown open and the prince offered his arm to the

countess.

She was her brilliant self again. She had taken a perfumed bath,

answered the royal letter, made several sketches for new court costumes

and sent them to Paris.

She painted with unusual skill, and the little water-color figures

which she sent to her modistes, were real works of art, far superior to

those in the fashion journals.

"Your Highness might earn your bread in this way"--said the maid

flatteringly, and a strange thrill stirred the countess at these words.

She had made herself a costume book, in which she had painted all the

toilettes she had worn since her entrance into society, and often found

amusement in turning the leaves; what memories the sight of the old

clothes evoked! From the heavy silver wrought brocade train of old

Count Wildenau's young bride, down to the airy little summer gown which

she had worn nine years ago in Ammergau. From the stiff, regulation

court costume down to the simple woolen morning gown in which she had

that morning spent hours of torture on account of that Ammergau

"delusion." But at the maid's words she shut the book as if startled

and rose: "I will give you the dress I wore this morning, but on

condition that I never see it."

"Your Highness is too kind, I thank you most humbly," said the

delighted woman, kissing the sleeve of the countess' combing-mantle--she

would not have ventured to kiss her hand.

The dinner toilette was quickly completed, and when the countess looked

in the glass she seemed to herself more beautiful than ever. The

melancholy expression around her eyes, and a slight trace of tears

which she had shed, lent the pale tea-rose a tinge of color which was

marvellously becoming.

The day was over, and when the prince came to dinner at six o'clock she

received him with all her former charm.

"To whom do I owe this--Prince?" she said smiling, holding out the

official letter.

"Why do you ask me?"

"Because _you_ only can tell!"

"I?"

"Yes, you. Who else would have proposed me to their Majesties? Don't

try to deceive me by that air of innocence. I don't trust it. You, and

no one else would do me this friendly service, for everything good

comes through you. You are not only a great and powerful man--you are

also a good and noble one--my support, my Providence! I thank you."

She took both his hands in hers and offered him her forehead to kiss,

with a glance of such sincere admiration and gratitude, that in his

surprise and joy he almost missed the permitted goal and touched her

lips instead. But fortunately, he recollected himself and almost

timidly pressed the soft curls which quivered lightly like the delicate

tendrils of flowers.

"I cannot resist this gratitude! Yes, my august cousin, the queen, did

have the grace to consider my proposal as 'specially agreeable' to her.

But, my dear Countess, you must have been passing through terrible

experiences to lavish such undue gratitude upon the innocent instigator

of such a trifle as this appointment as mistress of ceremonies, for

whose acceptance we must be grateful to you. There is a touch of almost

timidity in your manner, my poor Madeleine, as if you had lost the

self-control which, with all your feminine grace, gave your bearing so

firm a poise. You do yourself injustice. You must shake off this

oppression. That is why I ventured to push the hands of the clock of

life a little and secured this position, which will leave you no time

for torturing yourself with fancies. That is what you need most.

Unfortunately I cannot lift from those beautiful shoulders the burden

you yourself have probably laid upon them; but I will aid you

gradually, to strip it off.

"The world in which you are placed needs you--you must live for it and

ought not to withdraw your powers, your intellect, your charm. You are

created for a lofty position! I do not mean a subordinate one--that of

a mistress of ceremonies. This is merely a temporary palliative--I mean

that of a reigning princess, who has to provide for the physical and

intellectual welfare of a whole nation. When in your present office you

have become reconciled to the world and its conditions--perhaps the day

will come when I shall be permitted to offer you that higher place!"

The countess stood with her hands resting on the table and her eyes

bent on the floor. Her heart was throbbing violently--her breath was

short and hurried. _One_ thought whirled through her brain. "You might

have had all this and forfeited it forever!" The consciousness of her

marred destiny overwhelmed her with all its power. What a contrast

between the prince, the perfect product of culture, who took into

account all the demands of her rank and character, and the narrow,

limited child of nature, her husband, who found cause for reproach in

everything which the trained man of the world regarded as a matter of

course. Freyer tortured her and humbled her in her own eyes, while the

prince tenderly cherished her. Freyer--like the embodiment of Christian

asceticism--required from her everything she disliked while Prince Emil

desired nothing save to see her beautiful, happy, and admired, and made

it her duty to enjoy life as suited her education and tastes! She would

fain have thrown herself exultingly into the arms of her preserver and

said: "Take me and bear me up again on the waves of life ere I fall

into the power of that gloomy God whose power is nurtured on the blood

of the murdered joys of His followers."

Suddenly it seemed as if some one else was in the room gazing intently

at her. She looked up--the eyes of the Christ in the Gothic niche were

bent fixedly on her. "Are you looking at me again?" asked a voice in

her terror-stricken soul. "Can you never die?"

It was even so; He could not die on the cross, He cannot die in her

heart. Even though it was but a moment that He appeared to mortal eyes

in the Passion Play, He will live for ever to all who experienced that

moment.

Her uplifted arms fell as if paralyzed, and she faltered in broken

sentences: "Not another word, Prince--in Heaven's name--do not lead me

into temptation. Banish every thought of me--you do not know--oh! I was

never worthy of you, have never recognized all your worth--and now when

I do--now it is too late." She could say no more, tears were trembling

on her lashes. She again glanced timidly at the painted Christ--He had

now closed His eyes. His expression was more peaceful.

The prince gazed at her earnestly, but quietly. "Ah, there is a false

standpoint which must be removed. It will cost something, I see. Calm

yourself--you have nothing more to fear from me--I was awkward--it was

not the proper moment, I ought to have known it. Do you remember our

conversation nine years ago, on the way to the Passion Play? At that

time a phantom stood between us. It has since assumed a tangible form,

has it not? I saw this coming, but unfortunately could not avert it.

But consider--it is and will always remain--a phantom! Such spectres

can be fatal only to eccentric imaginative women like you who, in

addition to imagination, also possess a strongly idealistic tendency

which impresses an ethical meaning upon everything they feel. With a

nature like yours things which, in and of themselves, are nothing

except romantic episodes, assume the character of moral conflicts in

which you always feel that you are the guilty ones because you were the

superior and have taken a more serious view of certain relations than

they deserved."

"Yes, yes! That is it. Oh, Prince--you understand me better than any

one else!" exclaimed the countess, admiringly.

"Yes, and because I understand you better than any one else, I love you

better than any one else--that is the inevitable consequence. Therefore

it would be a pity, if I were obliged to yield to that phantom--for

never were two human beings so formed for each other as we." He was

silent, Madeleine had not heard the last words. In her swift variations

of mood reacting with every changing impression, a different feeling

had been evoked by the word "phantom" and the memories it awakened.

Even the cleverest man cannot depend upon a woman. The phantom again

stood between them--conjured up by himself.

As if by magic, the Kofel with its glittering cross rose before her,

and opposite at her right hand the glimmering sunbeams stole up the

cliff till, like shining fingers, they rested on a face whose like she

had never seen--the eyes, dark yet sparkling, like the night when the

star led the kings to the child in the manger! There he stood again,

the One so long imagined, so long desired.

And her enraptured eyes said: "Throughout the whole world I have

sought you alone." And his replied: "And I you!" And was this to be a

lie--this to vanish? It seemed as if Heaven had opened its gates and

suffered her to look in, and was all this to be delusion? The panorama

of memory moved farther on, leading her past the dwellings of the high

priest and apostles in Ammergau to the moonlit street where her ear,

listening reverently, caught the words: This is where Christus lives!

And she stood still with gasping breath, trembling with expectation of

the approach of God.

Then the following day--the great day which brought the fulfilment of

the mighty yearning when she beheld this face "from which the God so

long sought smiled upon her!" The God whom she had come to seek, to

confess! What! Could she deny, resign this God, in whose wounds she had

laid her fingers.

Again she stood in timid reverence, with a glowing heart, while before

her hovered the pierced, bleeding hand--Heaven and earth turned upon

the question whether she dared venture to press her lips upon the

stigma; she did venture, almost swooning from the flood of her

feelings--and lo, in the kiss the quivering lips felt the throbbing of

the warm awakening life in the hand of the stern "God," and a feeling

of exultation stirred within her, "You belong to me! I will steal you

from the whole human race." And now, scarcely nine years later--must

the joy vanish, the God disappear, the faith die? What a miserable,

variable creature is man!

"Dinner is served, and Baron St. Genois has called--shall I prepare

another place?"

The countess started from her reverie--had she been asleep where she

stood? Where was she?

The lackey was obliged to repeat the announcement and the question. A

visitor now? She would rather die--yet Baron St. Genois was an intimate

friend, he could come to dinner whenever he pleased--he was not to be

sent away.

She nodded assent to the servant. Her emotions were repressed and

scattered, her throbbing heart sank feebly back to its usual

pulsation--pallid despair whispered: "Give up the struggle--you cannot

be saved!"

A few minutes after the little party were celebrating in the

brilliantly lighted dining-room in sparkling sack the "event of the

day," the appointment of the new mistress of ceremonies.