Part 47 (2/2)
Was this the world, to which she had sacrificed her heart and conscience? Was this the honor for which she hourly suffered tortures.
And on the wintry mountain height the husband who had naught on earth save the paltry sc.r.a.p of love she bestowed, was peris.h.i.+ng--she had avoided him for months because to her he represented that uncomfortable Christianity whose asceticism has survived the civilization of thousands of years. Yes! This christianity of the Nazarene who walked the earth so humbly in a laborer's garb is the friend of the despised and humbled. It asks no questions about crowns and the favor of courts, human power and distinction. And she who had trembled and sinned for the wretched illusions, the glitter of the honors of this brief life--was she to despise a morality which, in its beggar's garb, stands high above all for which the greatest and most powerful tremble?
Again the symbol of the renewed bond between G.o.d and the world--the cross--rose before her, and on it hung the body of the Redeemer, radiant in its chaste, divine beauty--that body which for _her_ descended from the cross where it hung for the whole world and, after clasping it in her arms, she repined because it was only the _image_ of what no earthly desire will ever attain, no matter how many human hearts glow with the flames of love so long as the world endures.
”My Christus--my sacrificed husband!” cried a voice in her heart so loudly that she did not hear a question from the queen. ”It is incredible!” some one exclaimed angrily near her. She started from her reverie. ”Your Majesty?” The queen had already pa.s.sed on, without waiting for a reply--whispers and nods ran through the circle, every eye was fixed upon her. What had the queen wanted? She tried to hurry after her. Her Majesty had disappeared, she was already going through the next hall--but the distance was so great--she could not reach her, the s.p.a.ce seemed to increase as she moved on. She felt that she was on the verge of fainting and dragged herself into a secluded room.
The members of the court were retiring. Confusion arose--the mistress of ceremonies was absent just at the moment of the _Conge_! No one had time to seek her. All were a.s.sembling to take leave, and then hurrying after servants and wraps. Carriage after carriage rolled away, the rooms were empty, the lackeys came to extinguish the lights. The countess lay on a sofa, alone and deserted in the last hall of the suite.
”In Heaven's name, is your Highness ill?” cried an old major-domo, offering his a.s.sistance to the lady, who slowly rose. ”Is it all over?”
she asked, gazing vacantly around ”Where is my servant?”
”He is still waiting outside for Your Highness,” replied the old gentleman, trying to a.s.sist her. ”Shall I call a doctor or a maid?”
”No, thank you, I am well again. It was only an attack of giddiness,”
said the countess, walking slowly out of the palace.
”Who is driving to-night?” she asked the footman, as he put her fur cloak over her bare shoulders.
”Martin, Your Highness.”
”Very well, then go home and say that I shall not come, but visit the estates.”
”It is bitterly cold. Your Highness!” observed the major domo, who had attended her to the equipage.
”That does not matter--is the beaver robe in the carriage?”
”Certainly, Your Highness!”
”What time is it? Late?”
”Oh no; just nine. Your Highness.”
”Forward, then!”
Martin knew where.
The major-domo closed the door and away dashed the horses into the glittering winter night along the familiar, but long neglected road. It was indeed a cold drive. The ground was frozen hard and the carriage windows were covered with frost flowers. The countess' temples were throbbing violently, her heart beat eagerly with longing for the husband whom she had deserted for this base world! The mood of that Ammergau epoch again a.s.serted its rights, and she penitently hastened to seek the beautiful gift she had so thoughtlessly cast aside. With a heart full of rancor over the injustice and lovelessness experienced in society, her soul plunged deeply into the sweet chalice of the love and poesy of those days--a love which was religion--a religion which was _love_. ”Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding bra.s.s or a tinkling cymbal!” Aye, for sounding bra.s.s and a tinkling cymbal she had squandered warm heart's blood, and the sorrowing soul of the people from whose sacred simplicity her wearied soul was to have drawn fresh youth, gazed tearfully at her from the eyes of her distant son.
The horses went so slowly to-night, she thought--no pace is swift enough for a repentant heart which longs to atone!
He would be angry, she would have a bitter struggle with him--but she would soften his wrath--she would put forth all her charms, she would be loving and beautiful, fairer than he had ever seen her, for she had never appeared before him in full dress, with diamonds sparkling on her snowy neck, and heavy gold bracelets clasping her wonderful arms.
She would tell him that she repented, that everything should be as of yore when she plighted her troth to him by the glare of the bridal torches of the forest conflagration and, feeling Valkyrie might in her veins, dreamed Valkyrie dreams.
She drew a long breath and compared the pallid court lady of the present, who fainted at a proof of disfavor and a few spiteful glances, with the Valkyrie of those days! Was it a mere delusion which made her so strong? No--even if the G.o.d whom she saw in him was a delusion, the love which swelled in her veins with that might which defied the elements was divine and, by every standard of philosophy, aesthetics, and birth, as well as morality, had a right to its existence.
Then why had she been ashamed of it? On account of trivial prejudices, petty vanities: in other words, weakness!
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