On the Cross Part 8

"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 ma.s.sive 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 ma.s.s 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 G.o.d forgive you. Remember your old mother!"

The girl uttered a piercing cry, covered her face with both hands, and flung herself p.r.o.ne 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 Pa.s.sion!" 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 part in the Pa.s.sion."

"Oh, how hars.h.!.+" cried the countess; "And in a land where human beings are so near to nature, and in circ.u.mstances where the poor girls are so little guarded."

"Yes, we are aware of that--and Josepha is a heavy loss to us in the play--but these rules have come down to us from our ancestors and must be rigidly maintained. Yet the girl takes it too much to heart, she weeps day and night, so that people never pa.s.s the house to avoid hearing her lamentations, and now she wants to kill herself, the foolish la.s.s."

"Oh, it's very well for you to talk, it's very well for you to talk,"

now burst from the girls lips in accents tremulous with pa.s.sion.

"First, try once what it is to have the whole world point at you. When the Englishmen, and the strangers from all the foreign countries in the world, come and want to see the famous Josepha Freyer, who played in the last Pa.s.sion, and fairly drag the soul out of your body with their questions about the reason that you no longer act in it. Wait till you have to tell each person the story of your own disgrace, that it may be carried through the whole earth and know that your name is branded wherever men speak of the Pa.s.sion Play. First try what it is to hide in a corner like a criminal, while they are acting in the Pa.s.sion, and bragging and giving themselves airs as if they were saints, while thousands upon thousands listen devoutly. Ah, I alone am shut out, and yet I know that _no one_ can act as I do." She drew herself up proudly, and flung the magnificent traditional locks of the Magdalene back on her shoulders. "Just seek such a Magdalene as I was--you will find none. And then to be forced to hear people who are pa.s.sing ask: 'Why doesn't Josepha Freyer play the Magdalene this year?' And then there are whispers, shrugs, and laughter, some one says, 'then she would suit the character exactly.' And when people pa.s.s the house they point at it--it seems as if I could feel it through the walls--and mutter: 'That's where the Penitent lives!' No, I won't bear it. I only waited till there was a heavy storm to make the water deep enough for me to drown myself. And I've been prevented even in this."

"Josepha!" said the countess, deeply moved, "will you go with me--away from Ammergau, to another, a very different world, where you and your disgrace are unknown?"

Josepha gazed at the stranger as if in a dream.

"I believe," the lady added, "that my losing my maid to-day was an act of Providence in your behalf. Will you take her place?"

"Thank heaven!" said old Gross. "Brighter days will dawn for you, Josepha!"

Josepha stood still with her hands clasped, tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Why, do you hesitate to accept my offer?" asked the countess, greatly perplexed.

"Oh, don't be angry with me--I am sincerely grateful; but what do I care for all these things, if I am no longer permitted to act the Magdalene?" burst in unutterable anguish from the very depths of the girl's soul.

"What an ambition!" said the countess to Andreas in astonishment.

"Yes, that is the way with them all here--they would rather lose their lives than a part in the Pa.s.sion!" he answered in a low tone. "But, child, you could not always play the Magdalene--in ten years you would be too old for it," he said soothingly to the despairing Josepha.

"Oh that's a very different thing--when we have grown grey with honors, we know that we must give it up--but so--" and again she gazed longingly at the beautiful, deep, rus.h.i.+ng water, where it would be so cool, so pleasant to rest--which she had vowed to seek, and now could not keep her word.

"Do you love your child, Josepha?" asked Countess Wildenau.

"It died directly after it was born."

"Do you love your mother?"

"No, she was always unkind and harsh to me, and now she has lost her mind."

"Do you love your lover?" the lady persisted.

"Yes--but he is dead! A poacher shot him--he was a forester."

"Then you have no one for whom you care to live?"

"No one!"

"Then come with me and try whether you cannot love me well enough to make it worth while to live for me! Will you?"

"Yes, your Highness, I will try!" replied the girl, fixing her large eyes with an expression of mingled inquiry and admiration upon the countess. A beautiful glow of grat.i.tude and confidence gradually transfigured the grief-worn face: "I think I could do anything for you."

"Come with me then--at once, poor child--I will save you! Your relatives will not object."

"Oh, no! They will be glad to have me go away."