CHAPTER IV.

EXPELLED FROM THE PLAY.

The storm had spent its fury, the winds sung themselves softly to

sleep, a friendly face looked down between the dispersing clouds and

cast its mild light upon the water, now gradually flowing away. The

swollen brooks rolled like molten silver--cold, glittering veins of the

giant mountain body, whose crown of snow bestowed by the tempest

glimmered with argent lustre in the pallid moonbeams. A breeze, chill

and strengthening as the icy breath of eternity, sweeping from the

white glaciers, entered the little window against which the countess

was dreamily leaning.

Higher and higher rose the moon, more and more transfigured and

transparent became the mountains, as if they were no longer compact

masses, only the spiritual image of themselves as it may have hovered

before the divine creative mind, ere He gave them material form.

The village lay silent before her, and silence pervaded all nature. Yet

to the countess it seemed as if it were the stillness which precedes a

great, decisive word.

"What hast Thou to say to me, Viewless One? Sacred stillness, what dost

thou promise? Will the moment come when I shall understand Thy

language, infinite Spirit? Or wilt Thou only half do Thy work in

me--only awake the feeling that Thou art near me, speaking to me,

merely to let me die of longing for the word I have failed to

comprehend.

"Woe betide me, if it is so! And yet--wherefore hast Thou implanted in

my heart this longing, this inexplicable yearning, which _nothing_

stills, no earthly advantage, neither the splendor and grandeur Thou

hast given me, nor the art and science which Thou didst endow me with

capacity to appreciate. On, on, strives my thirsting soul toward the

germ of all existence, toward _Thee_. Fain would I behold Thy face,

though the fiery vision should consume me!

"Source of wisdom, no knowledge gives Thee to me; source of love, no

love can supply Thy place. I have sought Thee in the temples of beauty,

but found Thee not; in the shining spheres of thought, but in vain; in

the love of human beings, but no matter how many hearts opened to me, I

flung them aside as worthless rubbish, for Thou wert not in them! When

will the moment come that Thou wilt appear before me in some noble form

suited to Thy Majesty, and tell the sinner that her dim longing, into

whatever errors it may have led her, yet obtained for her the boon of

beholding Thy face?"

Burning tears glittered in the moonlight in the countess' large,

beseeching eyes and, mastered by an inexplicable feeling, she sank on

her knees at the little window, stretching her clasped hands fervently

towards the shining orb, floating in her mild beauty and effulgence

above the conquered, flying clouds. The mountain opposite towered like

a spectral form in the moonlit atmosphere, the peak over which she had

driven that day, where she had seen that wondrous apparition, that man

with the grief of the universe in his gaze! What manner of man must he

have been whose glance, in a single moment, awed the person upon whom

it fell as if some higher power had given a look of admiration? Why had

it rested upon her with such strange reproach, as if saying: "You, too,

are a child of the world, like many who come here, unworthy of

salvation." Or was he angry with her because she had disturbed him in

his reveries? Yet why did he fix his eyes so intently upon hers, that

neither could avert them from the other? And all this happened in a

single moment--but a moment worthy of being held in remembrance

throughout an eternity. Who could he be? Would she see him again? Yes,

for in that meeting there was something far beyond mere accident.

An incomprehensible restlessness seized upon her, a longing to solve

the enigma, once more behold that face, that wonderful face whose like

she had never seen before!

The horse was stamping in its stall, but she did not heed it, the thin

candles had burned down and gone out long ago, the worm was gnawing the

ancient wainscoting, the clock in the church-steeple struck twelve. A

dog howled in the distance, one of the children in the workshop was

disturbed by the nightmare, it cried out in its sleep. Usually such

nocturnal sounds would have greatly irritated the countess' nerves. Now

she had no ears for them, before her lay the whole grand expanse of

mountain scenery, bathed in the moonlight, naked as a beautiful body

just risen from a glittering flood! And she was seized with an eager

longing to throw herself upon the bosom of this noble body, that she,

too, might be irradiated with light, steeped in its moist glow and cool

in the pure, icy atmosphere emanating from it, her fevered blood, the

vague yearning which thrilled her pulses. She hurriedly seized her hat

and cloak and stepped noiselessly into the workshop. What a picture of

poverty! The sisters and the little girl were lying on the floor upon

sacks of straw, the boy was asleep on the "couch," and the old man

dozed sitting erect in an antique arm-chair, with his feet on a stool.

"How relative everything is," thought the countess. "To these people

even so poor a bed as mine in yonder room is a forbidden luxury, which

it would be sinful extravagance to desire. And we, amid our rustling

curtains, on our silken cushions, resting on soft down, in rooms

illuminated with the magical glow of lamps which pour a flood of

roseate light on limbs stretched in comfortable repose, while the

bronze angels which support the mirror seem to laugh gaily at each

other, and from the toilet table intoxicating perfumes send forth their

sweet poison, to conjure up a tropical world of blossom before the

drowsy senses! While these sleeping-places here! On the bare floor and

straw, lighted by the cold glimmer of the moon, shining through

uncurtained windows and making the slumberers' lids quiver restlessly.

Not even undressed, cramped by their coarse, tight garments, their

weary limbs move uneasily on the hard beds! And this atmosphere! Five

human beings in the low room and the soot from the lamp which has been

smoking all the evening still filling the air. What lives! What

contrasts! Yet these people are content and do not complain of their

hard fate! Nay, they even disdain a favorable opportunity of improving

it by legitimate gains. Not one desires more than is customary and

usual. What pride, what grandeur of self-sacrifice this requires! _What

gives them this power?_"

Old Andreas woke and gazed with an almost terrified expression at the

beautiful figure of the countess, standing thoughtfully among the

sleepers. Starting up, he asked what she desired.

"Will you go to walk with me, Herr Gross?"

The old man rubbed his eyes to convince himself that he had slept so

long that the sun was shining into his room. But no. "It is the moon

which is so bright," he said to the countess.

"Why, of course, that is why I want to go out!" she repeated. The old

man quickly seized his hat from the chamois horn and stood ready to

attend her. "Are you not tired?" she said hesitatingly. "You have not

been in bed."

"Oh, that is of no consequence!" was his ready answer. "During the

Passion it is always so."

The countess shook her head; she knew that the people here said simply

"the Passion," but she could not understand why, during "the Passion,"

they should neither expect a bed nor the most trivial comfort or why,

for the sake of "the Passion," they should endure without a murmur, and

without succumbing, every exertion and deprivation. She saw in the

broad light which filled the room the old man's bright, keen eyes. "No,

these Ammergau people know no fatigue, their task supports them!"

The countess left the room with him. "Ah!" an involuntary exclamation

of delight escaped her lips as she emerged into the splendor of the

brilliant moonlight, and eagerly inhaled the air which blew cold and

strong, yet closed softly around her, strengthening and supporting her

like the waves of the sea. And, amid these shimmering, floating mists,

this "phosphorescence" of the earth, these waves of melting outlines,

softly dissolving shapes--the Kofel towered solitary in sharp relief,

like a vast reef of rocks, and on its summit glittered the metal-bound

cross, the symbol of Ammergau, sending its beams far and wide in the

light of the full moon like the lantern of a lighthouse.

Madeleine von Wildenau stretched out her arms, throwing back her cloak,

that her whole form might bathe in the pure element.

"Oh, wash away all earthly dust and earthly ballast, ye surging

billows: steal, purify me in thy chaste majesty, queen of the world,

heaven-born air of the heights!" Was it possible that hitherto she had

been able to live without this bliss, _had_ she lived? No, no, she had

not! "Ammergau, thou art the soil I have sought! Thy miracles are

beginning!" cried an exultant voice in the soul of the woman so

suddenly released from the toils of weary desolation.

Without exchanging many words--for the old man was full of delicacy,

and perceived what was passing in the countess' soul--they

involuntarily walked in the direction of the Kofel; only when they were

passing the house of a prominent actor in the Passion Play, he often

thought it his duty to call his companion's attention to it.

Their way now lead them past a small dilapidated tavern which had but

two windows in the front. Here the Roman Procurator lay on his bed of

straw, enjoying his well-earned night's rest. It was the house of

Pilate! Nowhere was any window closed with shutters--there were no

thieves in Ammergau! The moon was reflected from every window-pane.

They turned into the main street of the village, where the Ammer flowed

in its broad, deep channel like a Venetian lagoon. The stately,

picturesquely situated houses threw sharp shadows on the water. Here

the ancient, venerable "star," whose landlord was one of the musicians,

thrust its capacious bow-window into the street; yonder a foot-bridge

led to the house of Caiaphas, a handsome building, richly adorned with

frescoes representing scenes from ancient history; farther on Judas was

sleeping the sleep of the just, rejoicing in the consciousness of

having betrayed his master so often! On the other side Mary rested

under the richly carved gable with the ancient design of the clover

leaf, the symbol of the Trinity, and directly opposite, the milk-wart

nodded and swayed on the wall of the churchyard!

A strange feeling stole over the countess as she stood among these

consecrated sleepers. As the fragrance of the sleeping flowers floats

over a garden at night, the sorrowful spirit of the story of the

Passion seemed to rise from these humble resting places, and the

pilgrim through the silent village was stirred as though she was

walking through the streets of Jerusalem. A street turned to the left

between gardens surrounded by fences and shaded by tall, ancient trees.

The shadows of the branches, tossed by the wind, flickered and danced

with magical grace. "That is the way to the dwelling of the Christ,"

said old Gross, in a subdued, reverential tone.

The countess involuntarily started. "The Christ," she repeated

thoughtfully, pausing. "Can the house be seen?"

"No, not from here. The house is like himself, not very easy to find."

"Is he so inaccessible?" asked the countess, glancing down the

mysterious street again as they passed.

"Oh yes," replied Andreas. "He is a peculiar man. It is difficult to

approach him. He is a friend of my son, but has little to do with the

rest of us."

"But you associate with him?"

"Very little in daily life; he goes nowhere, not even to the ale-house.

But in the Passion I am associated with him. I always nail him to the

cross," added the old man proudly. "No one is permitted to do that

except myself."

The countess listened with eager interest. The brief description had

roused her curiosity to the utmost. "How do you do it?" she asked, to

keep him to the same subject.

"I cannot explain that to you, but a great deal depends upon having

everything exactly right, for, you know, the least mistake might cost

him his life."

"How?"

"Why, surely you can understand. Just think, the man is obliged to hang

on the cross for twenty minutes. During this time the blood cannot

circulate, and he always risks an attack of palpitation of the heart.

One incautious movement in the descent from the cross, which should

cause the blood to flow back too quickly to the heart, might cause his

death."

"That is terrible!" cried the countess in horror. "And does he know

it?"

"Why, certainly."

"And _still_ does it!"

Here Andreas gazed at the great lady with a compassionate smile, as if

he wanted to say: "How little you understand, that you can ask such a

question!"

They walked on silently. The countess was thinking: "What kind of man

must this Christ be?" and while thus pondering and striving to form

some idea of him, it suddenly flashed upon her that there was but _one_

face which could belong to this man, the face she had seen gazing down

upon her from the mountain, as if from some other world. Like a blaze

of lightning the thought flamed through her soul. "_That_ must have

been he!"

At that moment Gross made a circuit around a gloomy house that had a

neglected, tangled garden.

"Who lives there?" asked the countess in surprise, following the old

man, who was now walking much faster.

"Oh," he answered sorrowfully, "that is a sad place! There is an

unhappy girl there, who sobs and moans all night long so that people

hear her outside. I wanted to spare you, Countess."

They had now reached the end of the village and were walking, still

along the bank of the Ammer, toward a large dam over which the mountain

stream, swollen by the rain, plunged in mad, foaming waves. The spray

gleamed dazzlingly white in the moon-rays, the massive beams trembled

under the pressure of the unchained volume of water, groaning and

creaking with a sinister noise amid the thundering roar until it

sounded like the wails of the dying amid the din of battle. The

countess shuddered at the demoniac power of this spectacle. High above

the steep fall a narrow plank led from one bank of the stream to the

other, vibrating constantly with the shock of the falling water.

Madeleine's brain whirled at the thought of being compelled to cross

it. "The timbers are groaning," she said, pausing. "Does not it sound

like a human voice?"

The old man listened. "By heaven! one would suppose so."

"It _is_ a human voice--there--hark--some one is weeping--moaning."

The dam was in the full radiance of the moonlight, the countess and her

companion stood concealed by a dense clump of willows, so that they

could see without being seen.

Suddenly--what was that? The old man made the sign of the cross.

"Heavenly Father, it is she!"

A female figure was gliding across the plank. Like the ruddy glow of

flame, mingled with the bluish hue of the moonlight, a mass of red-gold

hair gleamed around her head and fluttered in the wind. The beautiful

face was ghost-like in its pallor, the eyes were fixed, the very

embodiment of despair. Her upper garment hung in tatters about her

softly-moulded shoulders, and she held her clasped hands uplifted, not

like one who prays, but one who fain would pray, yet cannot. Then with

the firm poise of a person seeking death, she walked to the middle of

the swaying plank, where the water was deepest, the fall most steep.

There she prepared to take the fatal plunge. The countess shrieked

aloud and Gross shouted:

"Josepha! Josepha! May God forgive you. Remember your old mother!"

The girl uttered a piercing cry, covered her face with both hands, and

flung herself prone on the narrow plank.

But, with the speed of a youth, the old man was already on the bridge,

raising the girl. "Shame on you to wish to do such a thing! We must

submit to our fate! Now take care that you don't make a mis-step or I,

an old man, must leap into the cold water to drag you out again, and

you know how much I suffer from the rheumatism." He spoke in low,

kindly tones, and the countess secretly admired his shrewdness and

tenderness. She watched them breathlessly as the girl, at these words,

tried not to slip in order to spare him. But now, as she did not _wish_

to fall, she moved with uncertain, stumbling feet, where she had just

seemed to fly. But Andreas Gross led her firmly and kindly. The

countess' heart throbbed heavily till they reached the end and, in the

utmost anxiety she stretched out her arms to them from the distance.

Thank Heaven, there they are! The lady caught the girl by the hand and

dragged her on the shore, where she sank silently, like a stricken

animal, at her feet. The countess covered the trembling form with her

cloak and said a few comforting words.

"Do you know her?" she asked the old man.

"Of course, it is Josepha Freyer, from the gloomy house yonder."

"Freyer? A relative of the Freyer who played the Christ."

"A cousin; yes."

The old man was about to go to the girl's house to bring her mother.

"No, no," said the countess. "I will care for her. What induced the

unfortunate girl to take such a step?"

"She was the Mary Magdalene in the last Passion!" whispered the old

man. At the words the girl raised her head and burst into violent sobs.

"My child, what has happened!" asked the countess, gazing admiringly at

the charming creature, who was as perfect a picture of the penitent

Magdalene as any artist could create.

"Why don't you play the Magdalene _this time_?"

"Don't you know?" asked the girl, amazed that there was any human being

still ignorant of her disgrace. "I am not _permitted_ to play now--I

am--I have"--she again burst with convulsive sobs and, clasping the

countess' knees, cried: "Oh, let me die, I cannot bear it."

"She fell into error," said Gross, in reply to the lady's questioning

glance. "A little boy was born last winter. Now she can no longer act,

for only those who are pure and without reproach are permitted to take