CHAPTER XXVIII.

PARTING.

Several minutes have passed--to the duke a world of happiness--to the

countess of misery. The duke bent over the beautiful trembling form to

clasp her in his arms for the first time.

"Have I won you at last--my long-sought love?" he exclaimed,

rapturously. "Do you now perceive what your dispensations of Providence

mean? The shrewdness and persistence of a single man who knows what he

wants, has baffled them, and driven all the heroes of signs and wonders

from the field! Do you now believe what I said just now: that we are

our own Providence?"

"That will appear in due time, do not exalt yourself and do not

blaspheme, God might punish your arrogance!" she said faintly, slipping

gently from his embrace.

"Madeleine--no betrothal kiss--after these weary years of waiting and

hoping."

"I am _still_ Freyer's wife," she said, evasively--"not until I am

parted from him."

"You are right! I will not steal my bride's first kiss from another. I

thank you for honoring my future right in his." His lips touched her

brow with a calm, friendly caress. Then he rose: "It is time to go, I

have not a moment to lose." He glanced at the clock: "Seven! I will

make my preparations at once and set out for Prankenberg to-morrow."

"What do you wish to do?"

"First of all to see what is recorded in the church register, and to

ascertain what kind of a man the Catholic pastor is, that I may form

some idea of what the Wildenaus have discovered and how much proof they

have obtained. Then we can judge how far we must dissimulate with these

gentlemen until your relation with Freyer can be dissolved without any

violent outbreak or without being compelled to use any undue haste. I

will also go to Barnheim and quietly prepare everything there for our

marriage. The more quickly all these business matters are settled, the

sooner our betrothal can be announced. And that I am ardently longing

to be at last permitted to call you mine, you will--I hope,

understand?"

"But my relation with Freyer must first be arranged," said the

countess, evasively. "We cannot dispose of him like an ordinary

business matter. He is a man of heart and mind--we must remember that I

could not be happy for an hour, if I knew that he was miserable."

"Yet you have left him alone for weeks and months without any pangs of

conscience," said the duke with a shade of sternness.

"It was not _I_, but the force of circumstances. What happens now _I_

shall do--and must bear the responsibility. Help me to provide that it

is not too heavy." Her face wore a lofty, beautiful expression as she

spoke, and deeply moved, he raised her hand to his lips.

"Certainly, Madeleine! We will show him every consideration and do

everything as forbearingly as possible. But remember that, as I just

respected _his_ rights, you must now guard _mine_, and that every hour

in which you retain this relation to him longer than necessary--is

treason to _both_. It cannot suit your taste to play such a part--so do

not lose a moment in renouncing it."

"Certainly--you are right."

"Will you be strong--will you have the power to do what is

unavoidable--and do it soon?"

"I have always been able to do what I desired--I can do this also."

The duke took her hand and gazed long and earnestly into her eyes.

"Madeleine--I do not ask: do you love me? I ask only: do you believe

that you _will_ love me?"

The profound modesty of this question touched her heart with

indescribable melancholy, and in overflowing gratitude for such great

love, which gave all and asked nothing, she bowed her head: "Yes--I do

believe it."

The duke's usual readiness of speech deserted him--he had no words to

express the happiness of this moment.

What was that? Voices in the ante-room. The noise sounded like a

dispute. Then some one knocked violently at the door.

"Come in!" cried the countess, with a strange thrill of fear. The

footman entered hurriedly with an excited face. "A gentleman, he calls

himself 'Steward Freyer,' is there, is following close at my heels--he

would not be refused admittance." He pointed backward to where Freyer

already appeared.

The countess seemed turned to stone. "Request the steward to wait a

moment!" she said at last, with the imperiousness of the mistress.

The man stepped back, and they saw him close the door almost by force.

"Do not carry matters too far," said the duke; "he seems to be very

much excited--such people should not be irritated. Admit him before he

forces the door and makes a scandal in the presence of the servant. He

comes just at the right time--in this mood it will be easy for you to

dismiss him. So end the matter! But be _calm_, have no scene--shall I

remain at hand?"

"No--I am not afraid--it would be ignoble to permit you to listen to

him. Trust me, and leave me to my fate."

At this time the voices again grew louder, then the door was violently

thrown open. Freyer stood within the room.

"What does this mean--am I assaulted in my own house?" cried the

countess, rebelling against this act of violence.

Freyer stood trembling from head to foot; they could hear his teeth

chatter: "I merely wished to ask whether it was the Countess Wildenau's

desire that I should be insulted by her servant."

"Certainly not!" replied the countess with dignity. "If my servant

insulted you, you shall have satisfaction--only I wish you had asked it

in a less unseemly way."

The duke quietly took his hat and kissed the countess' hand: "_Restez

calme_!" Then he passed out, saluting Freyer with that aristocratic

courtesy which at once irritates and disarms.

Freyer stepped close to the countess, his eyes wandered restlessly, his

whole appearance was startling: "Everything in the world has its limit,

even patience--mine is exhausted. Tell me, are you my wife--you who

stand here in this gay masquerade of laces and pearls--are you the

mourning mother of a dead child? Is this my wife who decks herself for

another, shuts herself up with another, or at least gives orders not to

be disturbed--who has her lackeys keep her wedded husband at bay

outside with blows--and deems it unseemly if the last remnant of manly

dignity in his soul rebels and he demands satisfaction from his wife.

Where is the man, I ask, who would not be frenzied? Where is the woman,

I ask, who once loved me? Is it you, who desert, betray, make me

contemptible to myself and others? Where--where--in the wide world is

there a man so deceived, so trampled under foot, as I am by you? Have

you any answer to this, woman?"

The countess turned deadly pale, terror almost stifled her. For the

first time, she beheld the Gorgon, popular fury, in his face and while

turning to stone the thought came to her: "Would you live _with that_?"

Horror stole over her--she did not know whether her feeling was fear or

loathing, she only knew that she must fly from the "turbid waves" ever

rolling nearer.

There is no armor more impenetrable than the coldness of a dead

feeling. Madeleine von Wildenau armed herself with it. "Tell me, if you

please, how you came here, what you desire, and what put you into such

excitement."

"What--merciful Heaven, do you still ask? I came here to learn where

you were now, to what address I could write, as you made no reply to my

announcement of Josepha's death--and I wished to say that I could no

longer endure this life! While talking with the servant at the door,

old Martin passed and told me that you were here. I wanted to say one

last word to you--I went upstairs, found the footman, and asked,

entreated him to announce me, or at least to inquire when I could speak

to you! You had a visitor and could not be disturbed, was his scornful

answer. Then the consciousness of my just rights awoke within me, and I

_commanded_ him to announce me. You refused to receive me: 'I must

wait'--I--must wait in the ante-room while you, as I saw through the

half-opened door, were whispering familiarly with you former suitor!

Then I forgot everything and approached the door--the servant tried to

prevent me, I flung him aside, and then--he dealt me a blow in the

face--that face which you had once likened to the countenance of your

God--he, your servant. If I had not had sufficient self-control at the

moment to say to myself that the lackey was only your tool--I should

have torn him to pieces with my own hands, as I should now tear you, if

you were not a woman and sacred to me, even in your sin."

"I sincerely regret what has happened and do not blame you for making

me--at least indirectly responsible. I will dismiss the servant, of

course--although he has the excuse that you provoked him, and that he

did not know you."

"Yes, he certainly cannot know me, when I am never permitted to

appear."

"No matter, he should not venture to treat even a _stranger_ so, and

therefore must be punished with dismissal."

"Because he should not venture to treat even a _stranger_ so?" Freyer

laughed sadly, bitterly: "I thank you, keep your servant--I will

renounce this satisfaction."

"I do not know what else you desire."

"You do not know? Oh, Heaven, had this happened earlier, what would

your feelings have been! Do you remember your emotion in the Passion

Play, when I received only the _semblance_ of a blow upon the cheek?

Did it not, as you said, strike your own heart? How should you feel

when you saw it in reality? Oh, tears should have streamed down your

cheeks with grief for the poor deserted husband, who the only time he

crossed your threshold, was insulted by your lackey. If you still

retained one spark of love for me, you would feel that a single kiss

pressed compassionately on my cheek to efface the brand would be a

greater satisfaction than the dismissal of a servant whom you would

have sacrificed to any stranger. But that is over, we no longer

understand each other!"

The countess struggled a moment between pity and repugnance. But at the

thought of pressing her lips to the face her servant's hand had struck,

loathing overwhelmed her and she turned away.

"Yes, turn your back upon me--for should you look me in the eyes now,

you would be forced to lower your own and blush with shame."

"I beg you to consider that I am not accustomed to such outbreaks, and

shall be compelled to close the conversation, if your manner does not

assume a form more in accord with the standard of my circle."

"Yes, I understand! You dread the element you have unchained? A peasant

was very well, by way of variety, was he not? He loved differently,

more ardently, more fiercely than your smooth city gentlemen. The

strength and the impetuosity of the untutored man were not too rude

when I bore you through the flaming forest, and caught the falling

branches which threatened to crush you--then you did not fear me, you

did not thrust me back within the limits of your social forms; on the

contrary, you rejoiced that the world still contained power and

might, and felt yourself a Titaness. Why have you suddenly become so

weak-nerved, and cannot endure this might--because it has turned

against you?"

"No," said the countess, with a flash of deadly hatred in her

fathomless grey eyes: "Not on that account--but because at that time I

believed you to be different from what you really are. Then I believed

I beheld a God, now I perceive that it was a--" She paused.

"Go on--put no constraint on yourself--now you perceive that it was a

_peasant_."

"You just called yourself by that name."

Freyer stood as though a thunder-bolt had struck him. He seemed to be

struggling for breath. "Yes," he said at last in a low tone, "I did

call myself by that name, but--_you_ should not have done so--_not

you_!" He grasped the back of a chair to steady himself.

"It is your own fault," said the countess, coldly. "But--will you not

sit down? We have only a few words to say to each other. You have in

this moment stripped off the mask of Christus and torn the last

illusion from my heart. I can no longer see in the person who stood

before me so disfigured by fury the image of the Redeemer."

"Was not the Christ also angry, when He saw the moneychangers in the

temple? And you, you bartered the most sacred treasures of your heart

and mine for paltry-pelf and useless baubles--but I must not be angry!

Scarcely a year ago, by the bedside of our sick child, you reproached

me with being unable to cease playing the Christ--now--I have not kept

up the part! But it does not matter, whatever I might be, I should no

longer please you, for the _love_ which rendered the peasant a God is

lacking. Yet one thing I must add; if now, after nine years marriage

with you, I am still rough and a peasant, the reproach does not fall on

me alone. You might have raised, ennobled me, my soul was in your

keeping"--tears suddenly filled his eyes: "Woman, what have you done

with my soul?"

He sank into a chair, his strength was exhausted. Madeleine von

Wildenau made no reply, the reproach struck home. She had never taken

the trouble to develop his powers, to expand his intellectual

faculties. After his poetical charm was exhausted--she flung him aside

like a book whose contents she had read.

"You knew my history. I had told you that I grew up in the meadow with

the horses and had gained the little I knew by my own longing. I would

have been deeply grateful, if you had released me from the ban of

ignorance and quenched the yearning which those who are half educated

always feel for the treasures of culture, of which they know a little,

just enough to show them what they lack. But whenever I sought to

discuss such subjects with you, you impatiently made me feel my

shortcomings, and this shamed and intimidated me. So I constantly

deteriorated in my lonely life--grew more savage, instead of more

cultivated. Do you know what is the hardest punishment which can be

inflicted upon criminals? Solitary confinement. It can be imposed for a

short time only, because they go _mad_. Since the child and Josepha

died, I have been one of those unfortunates, and you--did not even

write me a line, had no word for me! I felt that my mind was gradually

becoming darkened! Woman, even if you had power over life and

death--you must not murder my soul, you have no right to that--even the

law slays the body only, not the soul. And where it imposes the death

penalty, it provides that the torture shall be shortened as much as

possible. You are more cruel than the law--for you destroy your victim

slowly--intellectually and physically."

"Terrible!" murmured the countess.

"Ay, it is terrible! You worldlings come and entice and sigh and kiss

the hem of our robes, as long as the delusion of your excited

imagination lasts, and your delusion infects us till we at last believe

ourselves that we are gods--and then you thrust us headlong into the

depths. Here you strew the miasma of the mania for greatness and

vanity, yonder money and the seeds of avarice--there again you wished

to sow your culture, tear us from our ignorance, and but half complete

your work. Then you wonder because we become misshapen, sham,

artificial creatures, comedians, speculators, misunderstood

geniuses--everything in the world except true children of Ammergau!" He

wiped his forehead, as if it were bleeding from the scratches of

thorns. "I was a type of my people when, still a simple shepherd boy, I

was brought from my herd to act the Christ, when in timid amazement,

I suddenly felt stirring within me powers of which I had never

dreamed--and I am so once more in my wretchedness, my mental conflicts,

my marred life. I shall be so at last in my defeat or victory--as God

is gracious to me. And since everything has deserted me--since I saw

Josepha, the last thing left me of Ammergau, lying in her coffin--since

then it has seemed as if from her grave, and that of all my happiness,

my home, my betrayed, abandoned home, once more rose before me, and I

felt a strange yearning for the soil to which I have a right, the earth

where I belong. Ah, only when the outside world abandons us do we know

what home is! Unfortunately I forgot it long enough, while I believed

that you loved and needed me. Now that I know that you no longer care

for me--the matter is very different! Like a true peasant, I believed

that I had only duties, no rights, but in my loneliness I have pondered

over many things, and so at last perceived that you, too, had duties

and expected more from me than I can honorably endure! That I bore it

_so long_ gave you a right to despise me, for the husband who sits

angrily in a corner and sees his wife daily betray, deny, and mock

him--deserves no better fate. So I have come to ask what you intend and

to tell you my resolve."

"What do you desire?"

"That you will go with me to Ammergau, that you will cast aside the

wealth, distinction, and splendor which I was not permitted to share

with you, and in exchange accept with me my scanty earnings, my

simplicity, my honest, plebeian name. For, poor and humble as I am, I

am not so contemptible in the eyes of Him, who bestowed upon me the

dignity and honor of personating His divine Son, that you need feel

ashamed to be my wife in the true Christian meaning."

The countess uttered a sigh of relief. "You anticipate me," she

answered, blushing. "I see that you feel the untenableness of our

relation. Your ultimatum is a proof that you will have strength to do

what is inevitable, and I have delayed so long only from consideration

for you. For--you know as well as I that I could never assent to your

demand. It will be a sacred duty, so long as you live, to see that you

want for nothing, but we must _part_."

Freyer turned pale. "Part? We must part--for ever?"

"Yes."

"Merciful Heaven--is nothing sacred to you, not even the bond of

marriage?"

"You know that I am a Rationalist, and do not believe in dogmas; as

such I hold that every marriage can be dissolved whenever the moral

conditions under which it was formed prove false. Unfortunately this is

the case with us. You did not learn to accommodate yourself to the

circumstances, and you never will--the conflict has increased till it

is unendurable, we cannot understand each other, so our marriage-bond

is spiritually sundered. Why should we maintain its outward semblance?

I have lost through you nine years of my life, sacrificed to you the

duties imposed by my rank, by renouncing marriage with a man of equal

station. Matters have now progressed so far that I shall be ruined if

you do not release me! Will you nevertheless cross my path and thrust

yourself into my sphere?"

"Oh God--this too!" cried Freyer in the deepest anguish. "When have I

thrust myself into your sphere? How, where, have I crossed your path?

During the whole period of my marriage I have lived alone on the

solitary mountain peak as your servant. Have I boasted of my position

as your husband? I waited patiently until every few weeks, and later,

every few months, you came to me. I disdained all the gifts of your

lavish generosity, it was my pride to work for you in return for the

morsel of food I ate. I asked nothing from your wealth, your position,

took no heed, like others, of the splendor of your establishment. I

wanted nothing from you save the immortal part. I was the poorest, the

most insignificant of all your servants! My sole possession was your

love, and that I was forced to conceal from every inquisitive eye, like

a theft, in order to avoid the scorn of my fellow-citizens and all who

could not understand the relation in which I stood to you. But this

disgrace also I bore in silence, when a word would have vindicated

me--bore it, that I might not drag you down from your brilliant

position to mine--and you call that thrusting myself into your sphere?

I will grant that I gradually became morose and embittered and by my

ill-temper and reproaches deterred you more and more from coming, but I

am only human and was forced to bear things beyond human endurance. The

intention was good, though the execution might have been faulty. I

lost your love--I lost my child--I lost my faithful companion, Josepha,

yet I bore all in silence! I saw you revelling in the whirl of

fashionable society, saw you admired by others and forget me, but I

bore it--because I loved you a thousand times better than myself and

did not wish to cause you pain. I often thought of secretly vanishing

from your life, like a shadow which did not belong there. But the

inviolability of the marriage-bond held me, and I wished to try once

more, by the power of the vow you swore at the altar, to lead you back

to your duty, for I cannot dissolve the sacrament which unites us, and

which you voluntarily accepted with me. If it does not bind _you_--it

still binds _me_! I am your husband, and shall remain so; if _you_

break the bond you must answer for it to God; as for me, I shall keep

it--unto death!"

"That would be a needless sacrifice, which neither church nor state

would require. I will not release myself and leave you bound. You argue

from a mistaken belief that we were legally married--it is time to

explain the error, both on your account and mine. You speak of a vow

which I made you before the altar, pray remember that we have never

stood before one."

"Never?" muttered Freyer, and the vein on his forehead swelled with

anger.

"Was the breakfast-table of the Prankenberg pastor an altar?"

"No, but wherever two human beings stand before a priest in the name of

God, there is a viewless altar."

"Those are subjective Catholic opinions which I do not understand--I do

not consider myself married, and you need not do so either."

"Not married? Do you know what you are saying?"

"What I _must_ say, to loose _your_ bonds as well as _mine_."

"Good Heavens, what will it avail if you loose my bonds and at the same

time cut an artery so that I bleed to death? No, no, you cannot be so

cruel. You cannot be in earnest. Omnipotent Father--you did not say it,

take back the words. Lord, forgive her, she does not know what she is

doing! Oh, take back those words--I will not believe that my wife, my

dear wife, can be so wicked!"

"Moderate your expressions! I guarantee my standpoint; ask whom you

choose, you will hear that we are not married!"

Freyer rushed up to her and seized her by the shoulders, shaking her as

a tempest shakes a young birch-tree. "Not married--do you know then

what you are!" He waited vainly for an answer, he seemed fairly crazed.

"Shall I tell you, shall I? Then for nine years you were a----"

"Do not finish!" shrieked the countess, wrenching herself with a

desperate effort from the terrible embrace and hurling him from her.

"Yes, I will finish, and you deserve that the whole world should hear

and point the finger of scorn at you. I ought to shout to all the winds

of Heaven that the Countess Wildenau, who is too proud to be called a

poor man's wife, was not too proud to be his----"

"Traitor, ungrateful, dishonorable traitor! Is this your return for my

love? Take a knife and thrust it into my heart, it would be more seemly

than to threaten me with degradation!" She drew herself up to her full

height and raised her hand as if to take an oath: "Accursed be the hour

I raised you from the dust to my side. Curses on the false humanity

which strove to efface the distinctions of rank, curses on the murmur

of 'the eternal rights of man' which removes the fetters from

brutishness, that it may set its foot upon the neck of culture! It is

like the child which opens the door to the whining wolf to be torn to

pieces by the brute. Yes, take yourself out of my life, gloomy shadow

which I conjured from those seething depths in which ruin is wrought

for us--take yourself away, you have no longer any part in me!--Your

right is doubly, trebly forfeited, your spell is broken, your strength

recoils from the shield of a noble spirit, under whose protection I

stand. Dare to lay hands on me again and--you will insult the betrothed

bride of the Duke of Barnheim and must account to him."

A cry--a heavy fall--Freyer lay senseless.

The countess timidly stroked the pallid face--a strange memory stole

over her--thus he lay prostrate on the ground when he was nailed to the

cross. She could not help looking at him again and again: Oh, that all

this should be a lie! Those features--that noble brow, on which the

majesty of suffering was throned--the very image of the Saviour! Yet

only an image, a mask! She looked away, she would gaze no longer, she

would not again fall a victim to the old delusion--she would not let

herself be softened by the wonderful, delusive face! But what was she

to do? If she called her servants, she would be the talk of the whole

city on the morrow. She must aid him, try to restore him to

consciousness alone. Yet if she now roused him from the merciful

stupor, if the grief and rage which had overwhelmed him should break

forth again--would he not murder her? Was it strange that she remained

so calm in the presence of this thought? A contemptuous indifference to

death had taken possession of her. "If he kills me, he has a right to

do so."

She was too lofty to shun punishment which she had deserved, though it

were her death. So she awaited her fate.

She brought a little bottle filled with a pungent essence from her

sleeping-room, and poured a few drops into his mouth. It was long ere

he gave any sign of life--it seemed as though the soul was reluctant to

awake, as if it would not return to consciousness. At last he opened

his eyes;--they rested as coldly on the little trembling hand which was

busied about him as if he had never clasped it, never kissed it, never

pressed it to his throbbing heart. The storm had spent its fury--he was

calm!

The countess had again been mistaken in him, as usual--his conduct was

always unlike her anticipations. He rose as quickly as his strength

permitted, passed his hand over his disordered hair, and looked for his

hat: "I beg your pardon for having startled you--forget this scene,

which I might have spared you and myself, had I known what I do now. I

deeply lament that the error which clouded your life has lasted so

long!"

"Yes," she said, and the words fell from her lips with the sharp sound

of a diamond cutting glass: "Yes, it was not _worth_ it!"

Freyer turned and gave her one last look--she felt it through her

lowered lids. She had sunk on the sofa and fixed her eyes on the

ground. A death-like chill ran through her limbs--she waited in her

position as if paralysed. All was still for a moment, then she heard a

light step cross the soft carpet of the room--and when she looked up,

the door had closed behind Joseph Freyer.