CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE MEASURE IS FULL.

From that day the countess showed an unwonted degree of interest in the

newspapers. The first question when she waked in the morning was for

the papers. But the maid noticed that she opened only the pages

containing the reports from Oberammergau.

"Your Highness seems to be very much interested in the Passion Play,"

the woman ventured to remark.

The countess blushed, and her "yes" was so curt and repellent that the

maid was alarmed at her own presumption.

One thing, however, was certain--her mistress, after reading these

reports, always looked pale and worn.

And in truth the unhappy woman, while reading the descriptions of this

year's performances, felt as if she were drinking a cup of wormwood

drop by drop. Freyer's name was echoing throughout the world. Not only

did the daily press occupy itself with him--but grave men, aesthetes of

high rank, found his acting so interesting that they wrote pamphlets

about it and made it the subject of scientific treatises. The countess

read them all. Freyer was described as the type in which art, nature,

and religion joined hands in the utmost harmony! "As he himself stands

above the laws of theatrical routine, he raises us far above what we

term stage effect, as it were into a loftier sphere. He does not

act--he is the Christ! The power of his glance, the spirituality of the

whole figure, and an indefinable spell of the noblest sorrow which

pervades his whole person, are things which cannot be counterfeited,

which are no play, but truth. We believe what he says, because we feel

that this man's soul does not belong to this world, that its own

individual life has entered into his part. Because he thinks, feels,

and lives not as Joseph Freyer, but as the Christus--is the source of

the impression which borders upon the supernatural."

Madeleine von Wildenau had just read these words, which cut her to the

heart. Ah, when strangers--critics--men said such things--surely she

had no cause to be ashamed. Who would reproach her, a weak,

enthusiastic woman, for yielding to this spell? Surely no one--rather

she would be blamed for not having arrested the charm, for having, with

a profane hand, destroyed the marvel that approached her, favoring her

above the thousands who gazed at it in devout reverence!

She leaned her head on her hand and gazed mournfully out of the window

at which she sat. They had now been playing six weeks in Oberammergau.

It was June. The gardens of the opposite palace were in their fullest

leafage; and the birds singing in the trees lured her out. Her eyes

followed a little swallow flying toward the mountains. "Oh, mountain

air and blue gentians--earthly Paradise!" she sighed! What was she

doing here in the hot city when all were flying to the mountains, she

saw no society, and the duke had gone away. She, too, ought to have

left long before. But where should she go? She could not visit

Oberammergau, and she cared for no other spot--it seemed as though the

whole world contained no other place of abode than this one village

with its gay little houses and low windows--as if in all the world

there were no mountains, and no mountain air save in Ammergau. A few

burning tears ran down her cheeks. Doubtless there was mountain air,

there were mountain peaks higher, more beautiful than in Ammergau, but

nowhere else could be found the same capacity for enjoying the

magnificence of nature! Everywhere there is a church, a religion, but

nowhere so religious an atmosphere as there.

"Oh, my lost Paradise, my soul greets you with all the anguish of the

exiled mother of my sex and my sin!" she sighed.

And yet, what was Eve's sin to hers? Eve at least atoned in love and

faith with the man whom she tempted to sin. Therefore God could forgive

her and send to the race which sprung from her fall a messenger of

reconciliation. Eve was a wife and a mother. But she, what was she? Not

even that! She had abandoned her husband and lived in splendor and

luxury while he grieved alone. She had given him only one child, and

even to that had acted no mother's part, and finally had thrust him out

into poverty and sorrow, and led a life of wealth and leisure, while he

earned his bread by the sweat of his brow. No, the mother of sin was a

martyr compared to her, a martyr to the nature which _she_ denied, and

therefore she was shut out from the bond of peace and pity which Eve's

atonement secured.

Some one knocked. The countess started from her reverie. The servant

announced that His Highness' nurses had sent for her; they thought

death was near.

"I will come at once!" she answered.

The prince lived near the Wildenau Palace, and she reached him in a few

minutes.

The sick man's mind was clearer than it had been for several months.

The watery effusions in the brain which had clouded his consciousness

had been temporarily absorbed, and he could control his thoughts. For

the first time he held out his hand to his daughter: "Are you there, my

child?"

It touched her strangely, and she knelt by his side. "Yes, father!"

He stroked her hair with a kindly, though dull expression: "Are you

well?"

"In body, yes papa! I thank you."

"Are you happy?"

The countess, who had never in her life perceived any token of paternal

affection in his manner, was deeply moved by this first sign of

affection in the hour of parting. She strove to find some soothing

reply which would not be false and yet satisfy his feeble reasoning

powers; but he had again forgotten the question.

"Are you married?" he asked again, as if he had been absent a long

time, and saw his daughter to-day for the first time.

The nurses withdrew into the next room.

The father and daughter were alone. Meantime his memory seemed to be

following some clue.

"Where is your husband?"

"Which one?" asked the countess, greatly agitated. "Wildenau?"

"No, no--the--the other one; let him come!" He put out his hand

gropingly, as if he expected some one to clasp it: "Say farewell--"

"Father," sobbed the countess, laying the seeking hand gently back on

the coverlet. "He cannot bid you farewell, he is not here!"

"Why not? I should have been glad to see him--son-in-law--grandson--no

one here?"

"Father--poor father!" The countess could say no mare. Laying her head

on the side of her father's bed, she wept bitterly.

"Hm, hm!" murmured the invalid, and a glance of intelligence suddenly

flashed from his dull eyes at his daughter. "My child, are you

weeping?" He reflected a short time, then his mind seemed to grow clear

again.

"Oh, yes. No one must know! Foolish weaknesses! Tell him I sincerely

ask his pardon; he must forgive me. Prejudiced, old--! I am very sorry.

Can't you send for him?"

"Oh, papa, I would gladly bring him, but it is too late--he has gone

away!"

"Ah! then I shall not see him again. I am near my end."

The countess could not speak, but pressed her lips to her father's cold

hand.

"Don't grieve; you will lose nothing in me; be happy. I spent a great

deal of money for you--women, gaming, dinners, what value are they

all?" He made a gesture of loathing: "What are they now?"

A chill ran through his veins, and his breath grew short and labored.

"I'm curious to see how it looks up there!" He pondered for a time. "If

you knew of any sensible pastor, you might send for him; such men often

_do_ know something."

"Certainly, father!"

The countess hurried into the next room and ordered a priest to be sent

for to give extreme unction.

"You wish to confess and take the communion too, do you not, papa?"

"Why yes; one doesn't wish to take the old rubbish when starting on the

great journey. We don't carry our soiled linen with us when we travel.

I have much on my conscience, Magdalena--my child--most of all, sins

committed against you! Don't bear your foolish old father ill-will for

it."

"No, father, I swear it by the memory of this hour!"

"And your husband"--he shook his head--"he is not here; it's a pity!"

Then he said no more but lay quietly, absorbed in his own thoughts,

till the priest came.

Madeleine withdrew during the confession. What was passing in her mind

during that hour she herself could not understand. She only knew that

her father's inquiry in his dying hour for his despised, disowned

son-in-law was the keenest reproach which had been addressed to her.

The sacred ceremony was over, and the priest had left the house.

The sick man lay with a calm, pleasant expression on his face, which

had never rested there before. Madeleine sat down by the bed and took

his hand; he gratefully returned her gentle pressure.

"How do you feel, dear father?" she asked gently.

"Very comfortable, dear child."

"Have you made your peace with God?"

"I hope so, my child! So far as He will be gracious to an old sinner

like me." He raised his eyes with an earnest, trustful look, then a

long--agonizing death struggle came on. But he held his daughter's hand

firmly in his own, and she spent the whole night at his bedside without

stirring, resolute and faithful--the first fulfillment of duty in her

whole life.

The struggle continued until the next noon ere the daughter could close

her father's eyes. A number of pressing business matters were now to be

arranged, which detained her in the house of mourning until the

evening, and made her sorely miss her thoughtful friend, the duke. At

last, at nine o'clock, she returned to her palace, wearied almost unto

death.

The footman handed her a card: "The gentleman has been here twice

to-day and wished to see Your Highness on very urgent business. He was

going to leave by the last train, but decided to stay in order to see

you. He will try again after nine o'clock--"

The countess carried the card to the gas jet and read: "Ludwig Gross,

drawing-teacher." Her hand trembled so violently that she almost

dropped it. "When the gentleman comes, admit him!" She was obliged to

cling to the balustrade as she went upstairs, she was so giddy.

Scarcely had she reached her boudoir when she heard the lower bell

ring--then footsteps, a familiar voice--some one knocked as he had done

ten years ago in the Gross House; but the man whom he then brought,

nothing would ever bring again.

She did not speak, her voice failed, but she opened the door

herself--Ludwig Gross stood before her. Both gazed at each other a long

time in silence. Both were struggling for composure and for words, and

from the cheeks of both every drop of blood had vanished. The countess

held out her hand, but he did not seem to see it. She pointed to a

chair, and said in a hollow tone: "Sit down," at the same time sinking

upon a divan opposite.

"I will not disturb you long, Your Highness!" Ludwig answered, seating

himself a long distance off.

"If you disturbed me, I should not have received you."

Ludwig felt the reproof conveyed in the words for the hostility of his

manner, but he could not help it.

"Perhaps Your Highness remembers a certain Freyer?"

"Herr Gross, that question is an insult, but I admit that, from your

standpoint, you have a right to ask it. At any rate, Freyer did not

commission you to do so."

"No, Countess, for he does not know that I am here; if he did, he would

have prevented it. I beg your pardon, if I perform my mission somewhat

clumsily! I know it is unseemly to meddle with relations of which one

is ignorant, for Freyer's reserve allowed me no insight into these. But

here there is danger in delay, and where a human life is at stake,

every other consideration must be silent. I have never been able to

learn any particulars from Freyer. I only know that he was away nine

years, as it was rumored, with you, and that he returned a beggar!"

"That, Herr Gross, is no fault of mine."

"Not that, Countess, but it must be _your_ fault alone which has caused

relations so unnatural that Freyer was ashamed to accept from you even

the well-earned payment for his labor."

"You are right there, Herr Gross."

"And that would be the least, Countess, but he has returned, not only a

beggar, but a lost man."

"Ludwig!"

"Yes, Countess. That is the reason I determined, after consulting with

the burgomaster, to come here and talk with you, if you will allow it."

"Speak, for Heaven's sake; what has befallen him?"

"Freyer is ill, Countess."

"But, how can that be? He is acting the Christus every week and

delighting the world?"

"Yes, that is just it! He acts, as a candle burns down while it

shines--it is no longer the phosphorescence of genius, it is a light

which feeds on his own life and consumes it."

"Merciful God!"

"And he _wishes_ to die--that is unmistakable--that is why it is so

hard to aid him. He will heed no counsel, follow no advice of the

physician, do nothing which might benefit him. Now matters have gone so

far that the doctor told us yesterday he might fall dead upon the stage

at any hour--and we ought not to allow him to go on playing! But he

cannot be prevented. He desires nothing more than death."

"What is the matter?" asked the pale lips of the countess.

"A severe case of heart disease, Countess, which might be arrested for

several years by means of careful nursing, perfect rest, and

strengthening food; but he has no means to obtain the better

nourishment his condition requires, because he is too proud to be a

burden on any one, and he lacks the ease of mind necessary to relieve

his heart. Nursing is out of the question--he occupies, having given

his own home to the poor when he left Ammergau, as you know, a

miserable, damp room in a wretched tavern, just outside the village,

and wanders about the mountains day and night. Of course speedy death

is inevitable--hastened, moreover, by the exertions demanded by his

part."

Ludwig Gross rose. "I do not know how you estimate the value of a poor

man's life, Countess," he said bitterly--"I have merely done my duty by

informing you of my friend's condition. The rest I must leave to you."

"Great Heaven! What shall I do! He rejects everything I offer. Perhaps

you do not know that I gave him a fortune and he refused it."

Ludwig Gross fixed an annihilating glance upon her. "If you know no

other way of rendering aid here save by _money_--I have nothing more to

say."

He bowed slightly and left the room without waiting for an answer.

"Ludwig!" she called: "Hear me!"

He had gone--he was right--did she deserve anything better? No--no! She

stood in the middle of the room a moment as if dazed. Her heart

throbbed almost to bursting. "Has it gone so far! I have left the man

from whose lips I drew the last breath of life to starve and languish.

I allowed the heart on which I have so often rested to pine within

dark, gloomy walls, bleed and break in silent suffering. Murderess, did

you hear it? He is lost, through your sin! Oh, God, where is the crime

which I have not committed--where is there a more miserable creature? I

have murdered the most innocent, misunderstood the noblest, repulsed

the most faithful, abused the most sacred, and for what?" She sank

prostrate. The measure was full--was running over.--The angel with the

cup of wormwood had overtaken her, as Freyer had prophesied and was

holding to her lips the bitter chalice of her own guilt, which she must

drain, drop by drop. But now this guilt had matured, grown to its full

size, and stood before her, grinning at her with the jeer of madness.

"Wings--oh, God, lend me wings! While I am doubting and despairing

here--it may be too late--the terrible thing may have happened--he may

have died, unreconciled, with the awful reproach in his heart! Wings,

wings, oh God!" She started up and flew to the bell with the speed of

thought. "Send for the head-groom at once!" Then she hurried into the

chamber, where the maid was arranging her garments for the night. "Pack

as quickly as possible whatever I shall need for a journey of two or

three days--or weeks--I don't know myself."

"Evening or street costumes?" asked the maid, startled by her mistress'

appearance. "Street dresses!"

Meantime the head-groom had come. She hastened into the boudoir: "Have

relays of horses saddled and sent forward at once--it is after ten

o'clock--there is no train to Weilheim--but I must reach Oberammergau

to-night! Martin is to drive, send on four relays--I will give you four

hours start--the men must be off within ten minutes--I will go at two

o'clock--I shall arrive there at seven."

"Your Excellency, that is scarcely possible"--the man ventured to say.

"I did not ask whether it was possible--I told you that it _must_ be

done, if it kills all my horses. Quick, rouse the whole stable--every

one must help. I shall wait at the window until I see the men ride

away."

The man bowed silently, he knew that opposition was futile, but he

muttered under his breath: "To ruin six of her best horses in one

night--just for the sake of that man in Ammergau, she ought to be put

under guardianship."

The courtyard was instantly astir, men were shouting and running to and

fro. The stable-doors were thrown open, lanterns flashed hither and

thither, the trampling and neighing of horses were heard, the noise and

haste seemed as if the wild huntsman was setting off on his terrible

ride through the starless night.

The countess stood, watch in hand, at the lighted window, and the

figure of their mistress above spurred every one to the utmost haste.

In a few minutes the horses for the relays were saddled and the grooms

rode out of the courtyard.

"The victoria with the pair of blacks must be ready at two," the

head-groom said to old Martin. "You must keep a sharp look-out--I don't

see how you will manage--those fiery creatures in that light carriage."

The countess heard it at the window, but she paid no heed. If only she

could fly there with the light carriage, the fiery horses, as her heart

desired. Forward--was her only thought.

"Must I go, too?" asked the maid, pale with fright.

"No, I shall need no one." The countess now shut the windows and went

to her writing-desk, for there was much to be done within the few short

hours. Her father's funeral--sending the announcements--all these

things must now be entrusted to others and a representative must be

found among the relatives to fill her own place. She assigned as a

pretext the necessity of taking a short journey for a day or two,

adding that she did not yet know whether she could return in time for

the funeral of the prince. Her pen fairly flew over the paper, and she

finally wrote a brief note to the duke, in which she told him nothing

except her father's death. The four hours slipped rapidly away, and as

the clock struck two the victoria drove to the door.

The countess was already standing there. The lamps at the entrance

shone brightly, but even brighter was old Martin's face, as he curbed

the spirited animals with a firm hand.

"To Ammergau, Martin!" said the countess significantly, as she entered

the equipage.

"Hi! But I'll drive now!" cried the old man, joyously, not suspecting

the sorrowful state of affairs, and off dashed the steeds as though

spurred by their mistress' fears--while guilt and remorse accompanied

her with the heavy flight of destiny.