Part 21 (1/2)
Ludwig gazed fixedly out of the window. The countess had gently drawn the wounded hand nearer and nearer; suddenly forgetting everything in an unutterable feeling, she stooped and ere Freyer could prevent it pressed a kiss upon the b.l.o.o.d.y stigma.
Joseph Freyer shrank as though struck by a thunderbolt, drawing back his hand and closing it as if against some costly gift which he dared not accept. A deep flush crimsoned his brow, his broad chest heaved pa.s.sionately and he was obliged to cling to a chair, to save himself from falling. Yet unconsciously his eyes flashed with a fire at once consuming and life-bestowing--a Prometheus spark!
”You are weary, pardon me for not having asked you to sit down long ago!” said the countess, making an effort to calm herself, and motioning to Ludwig Gross, in order not to leave him standing alone.
”Only a moment”--whispered Freyer, also struggling to maintain his composure, as he sank into a chair. Madeleine von Wildenau turned away, to give him time to regain his self-command. She saw his intense emotion, and might perhaps have been ashamed of her hasty act had she not known its meaning--for her feeling at that moment was too sacred for him to have misunderstood it. Nor had he failed to comprehend, but it had overpowered him.
Ludwig, who dearly perceived the situation, interposed with his usual tact to relieve their embarra.s.sment: ”Freyer is particularly exhausted to-day; he told me, on our way here, that he had again been taken from the cross senseless.”
”Good Heavens, does that happen often?” asked the countess.
”Unfortunately, yes,” said Ludwig in a troubled tone.
”It is terrible--your father told me that the long suspension on the cross was dangerous. Can nothing be done to relieve it?”
”Something might be accomplished,” replied Ludwig, ”by subst.i.tuting a flat cross for the rounded one. Formerly, when we had a smooth, angular one, it did not tax his strength so much! But some authority in archaeology told us that the crosses of those days were made of semi-circular logs, and this curve, over which the back is now strained, stretches the limbs too much.”
”I should think so!” cried the countess in horror. ”Why do you use such an instrument of torture?”
”He himself insists upon it, for the sake of historical accuracy.”
”But suppose you should not recover, from one of these fainting fits?”
asked the lady, reproachfully.
Then Freyer, conquering his agitation, raised his head. ”What more beautiful fate could be mine, Countess, than to die on the cross, like my redeemer? It is all that I desire.”
”All?” she repeated, and a keen emotion of jealousy a.s.sailed her, jealousy of the cross, to which he would fain devote his life! She met his dark eyes with a look, a sweet, yearning--fatal look--a poisoned arrow whose effect she well knew. She grudged him to the cross, the dead, wooden instrument of martyrdom, which did not feel, did not love, did not long for him as she did! And the true Christ? Ah, He was too n.o.ble to demand such a sacrifice--besides. He would receive too souls for one, for surely, in His image, she loved _Him_. He had sent her the hand marked with blood stains to show her the path to Him--He could not desire to withdraw it, ere the road was traversed.
”You are a martyr in the true sense of the word,” she said. Her eyes seemed to ask whether the shaft had struck. But Freyer had lowered his lids and sat gazing at the floor.
”Oh, Countess,” he said evasively, ”to have one's limbs wrenched for half an hour does not make a martyr. That suffering brings honor and the consciousness of serving others. Many, like my friend Ludwig, and other natives of Ammergau, offer to our cause secret sacrifices of happiness which no audience beholds and applauds, and which win no renown save in their own eyes and G.o.d's. _They_ are martyrs, Countess!--I am merely a vain, spoiled, sinful man, who has enough to do to keep himself from being dazzled by the applause of the world and to become worthy of his task.”
”To _become_!” the countess repeated. ”I think whoever speaks in that way, _is_ worthy already.”
Freyer raised his eyes with a look which seemed to Madeleine von Wildenau to lift her into a higher realm. ”Who would venture to say that he was worthy of _this_ task? It requires a saint. All I can hope for is that G.o.d will use the imperfect tool to work His miracles, and that He will accept my _will_ for the deed,--otherwise I should be forced to give up the part _this very day_.”
The countess was deeply moved.
”Oh, Freyer, wonderful, divinely gifted nature! To us you are the Redeemer, and yet you are so severe to yourself.”
”Do not talk so, Countess! I must not listen! I will not add to all my sins that of robbing my Master, in His garb, of what belongs to _Him_ alone. You cannot suspect how it troubles me when people show me this reverence; I always long to cry out, 'Do not confound me with Him--I am nothing more than the wood--or the marble from which an image of the Christ is carved, and withal _bad_ wood, marble which is not free from stains.' And when they will not believe it, and continue to transfer to me the love which they ought to have for Christ--I feel that I am robbing my Master, and no one knows how I suffer.” He started up. ”That is why I mingle so little with others--and if I ever break this rule I repent it, for my peace of mind is destroyed.”
He took his hat. His whole nature seemed changed--this was the chaste severity with which he had driven the money changers from the temple, and Madeleine turned pale--chilled to the inmost heart by his inflexible bearing.
”Are you going?” she murmured in a trembling voice.
”It is time,” he answered, gently, but with an unapproachable dignity which made the words with which she would fain have entreated him to stay longer, die upon her lips.