On the Cross Part 63

He extended his arms as if he would fain embrace the whole infinite scene: "Home, home, your lost son is returning--receive him. Do not fall, ye mountains, and bury the beloved valley ere I reach it!"

One last effort, one short hour's walk. Hold out, wearied one, this one hour more!

The highway from Lower Ammergau stretched endlessly toward the goal. On the right was the forest, on the left the fields where grew thousands of meadow blossoms, the Eden of his childhood where a blue lake once lured him, so blue that he imagined it was reflecting a patch of the sky, but when he reached it, instead of water, he beheld a field of forget-me-nots!

Oh, memories of childhood--reconciling angel of the tortured soul!

There stands the cross on the boundary with the th.o.r.n.y bush whence Christ's crown was cut.

"How will you fare, will the community receive you, admit you to the blissful union of home powers, if you sacrifice your heart's blood for it?" Freyer asked himself, and it seemed as if some cloud, some dark foreboding came between him and his home. "Well for him who no longer expects his reward from this world. What are men? They are all variable, variable and weak! Thou alone art the same. Thou who dost create the miracle from our midst--and thou, sacred soil of our ancestors, ye mountains from whose peaks blows the strengthening breath which animates our sublime work--it is not _human beings_, but ye who are home!"

Now the goal was gained--he was there! Before him in the moonlight lay the Pa.s.sion Theatre--the consecrated s.p.a.ce where once for hours he was permitted to feel himself a G.o.d.

The poor, cast off man, deceived in all things, flung himself down, kissed the earth, and laid a handful of it on his head, as though it were the hand of a mother--while from his soul gushed like a song sung by his own weeping guardian angel,

"Thy soil I kiss, beloved home, Which erst my fathers' feet have trod, Where the good seed devoutly sown Sprang forth at the command of G.o.d!

Thy lap fain would I rest upon, Though faithlessly from thee I fled Still thy chains draw thy wand'ring son Oh! mother, back where'er his feet may tread.

And though no ray of light, no star, Illumes the future--and its gloom, Thou wilt not grudge, after life's war, A clod of earth upon my tomb."

He rested his head thus a long time on the cold earth, but he no longer felt it. It seemed as though the soul had consumed the last power of the exhausted body--and bursting its fetters blazed forth like an aureole. "Hosanna, hosanna!" rang through the air, and the earth trembled under the tramp of thousands. On they came in a long procession bearing palm-branches, the shades of the fathers--the old actors in the Pa.s.sion Play from its commencement, and all who had lived and died for the cross since the time of Christ!

"Hosanna, hosanna to him who died on the cross. Many are called, but few chosen. But you belong to us!" sang the chorus of martyrs till the notes rang through earth and Heaven. "Hosanna, hosanna to him who suffers and bleeds for the sins of the world."

Freyer raised his head. The moon had gone behind a cloud, and white mists were gathering over the fields.

He rose, shivering with cold. His thin coat was damp with the night frost which had melted on his uncovered breast, and his feet were sore, for his shoes were worn out by the long walk.

He still fancied he could hear, far away in the infinite distance, the chorus of the Hosanna to the Crucified! And raising his arms to heaven, he cried: "Oh, my Redeemer and Master, so long as Thou dost need me to show the world Thy face--let me live--then take pity on me and let me die on the cross! Die for the sins of one, as Thou didst die for the sins of the world." He opened the door leading to the stage. There in the dim moonlight lay the old cross. Sobbing aloud, he embraced it, pressing to his breast the hard wood which had supported him and now, as of yore, was surrounded by the mysterious powers, which so strongly attracted him.

"Oh, had I been but faithful to thee," he lamented, "all the blessings of this world--even were it the greatest happiness, would not outweigh thee. Now I am thine--praise thyself with me and bear me upward, high above all earthly woe."

The clock in the church steeple struck three. He must still live and suffer, for he knew that no one could play the Christus as he did, because no one bore the Redeemer's image in his heart like him.

But--could he go farther? His strength had failed, he felt it with burdened breast. He took up his hat and staff, and tottered out. Where should he go? To Ludwig Gross, the only person to whom he was not ashamed to show himself in his wretchedness.

Now for the first time he realized that he could scarcely move farther.

Yet it must be done, he could not lie there.

Step by step he dragged himself in his torn shoes along the rough village street. When half way down he heard music and singing alternating with cries and laughter, echoing from the tavern. It was a wedding, and they were preparing to escort the bride and groom home--he learned this from the talk of some of the lads who came out. Was he really in Ammergau? His soul was yet thrilling with emotion at the sight of the home for which he had so long yearned and now--this contrast! Yet it was natural, they could not all devote themselves to their task with the same fervor. Yet it doubly wounded the man who bore in his heart such a solemn earnestness of conviction. He glided noiselessly along in the shadow of the houses, that no one should see him.

Did not the carousers notice that their Christ was pa.s.sing in beggar's garb? Did they not feel the gaze bent on them from the shadow through the lighted window, silently asking: "Are these the descendants of those ancestors whose glorified spirits had just greeted the returning son of Ammergau?"

The unhappy wanderer's step pa.s.sed by unheard, and now Freyer turned into the side street, where his friend's house stood--the luckless house where his doom began.

It was not quite half-past three. The confused noise did not reach the quiet street. The house, shaded by its broad, projecting roof, lay as if wrapped in slumber. Except during the pa.s.sion Ludwig always slept in the room on the ground floor, formerly occupied by the countess. Freyer tapped lightly on the shutter, but his heart was beating so violently that he could scarcely hear whether any one was moving within.

If his friend should not be there, had gone away on a journey, or moved--what should he do then? He had had no communication with him, and only heard once through Josepha that old Andreas Gross was dead. He knocked again. Ludwig was the only person whom he could trust--if he had lost him, all would be over.

But no--there was a movement within--the well-known voice asked sleepily: "Who is there?"

"Ludwig, open the window--it is I--Freyer!" he called under his breath.

The shutters were flung back. "Freyer--is it possible? Wait, Joseph, wait, I'll admit you." He heard his friend hurriedly dressing--two minutes after the door opened. Not a word was exchanged between the two men. Ludwig grasped Freyer's hand and drew him into the house.

"Freyer--you--am I dreaming? You here--what brings you? I'll have a light directly." His hand trembled with excitement as he lighted a candle. Freyer stood timidly at the door. The room grew bright, the rays streamed full on Freyer. Ludwig started back in horror. "Merciful Heaven, how you look!"

The friends long stood face to face, unable to utter a word, Freyer still holding his hat in his hand. Ludwig's keen eye glided over the emaciated form, the shabby coat, the torn shoes. "Freyer, Freyer, what has befallen you? My poor friend, do you return to me _thus_?" With unutterable grief he clasped the unfortunate man in his arms.

Freyer could scarcely speak, his tongue refused to obey his will. "If I could rest a little while," he faltered.

"Yes, come, come and lie down on my bed--I have slept as much as I wish. I shall not lie down again," replied Ludwig, trembling with mingled pity and alarm, as he drew off his friend's miserable rags as quickly as possible. Then leading him to his own bed, he gently pressed him down upon it. He would not weary the exhausted man with questions, he saw that Freyer was no longer master of himself. His condition told his friend enough.

"You--are--kind!" stammered Freyer. "Oh, I have learned something in the outside world."

"What--what have you learned?" asked Ludwig.

A strange smile flitted over Freyer's face: "_To beg._"

His friend shuddered. "Don't talk any more now--you need rest!" he said in a low, soothing tone, wrapping the chilled body in warm coverlets.

But a flash of n.o.ble indignation sparkled in his eyes, and his pale lips could not restrain the words: "I will ask no questions--but whoever sent you home to us must answer for it to G.o.d."

The other did not hear, or if he did his thoughts were too confused to understand.

"Freyer! Only tell me what I can do to strengthen you. I'll make a fire, and give you anything to eat that you would like."

"Whatever--you--have!" Freyer gasped with much difficulty.

"May G.o.d help us--he is starving." Ludwig could scarcely control his tears. "Keep quiet--I'll come presently and bring you something!" he said, hurrying out to get all the modest larder contained. He would not wake his sisters--this was no theme for feminine gossip. He soon prepared with his own hands a simple bread porridge into which he broke a couple of eggs, he had nothing else--but at least it was warm food.

When he took it to his friend Freyer had grown so weak that he could scarcely hold the spoon, but the nourishment evidently did him good.

"Now sleep!" said Ludwig. "Day is dawning. I'll go down to the village and see if I can get you some boots and another coat."

A mute look of grat.i.tude from Freyer rewarded the faithful care, then his eyes closed, and his friend gazed at him with deep melancholy.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

TO THE VILLAGE.

The burgomaster's house, with its elaborate fresco, "Christ before Pilate," still stood without any signs of life in the grey dawn. The burgomaster was asleep. He had been ill very frequently. It seemed as if the attack brought on by Freyer's flight had given him his death-blow, he had never rallied from it. And as his body could not recuperate, his mind could never regain its tone.

When Ludwig Gross' violent ring disturbed the morning silence of the house the burgomaster's wife opened the door with a face by no means expressive of pleasure. "My husband is still asleep!" she said to the drawing-master.

"Yes, I cannot help it, you must wake him. I've important business!"

The anxious wife still demurred, but the burgomaster appeared at the top of the staircase. "What is it? I am always to be seen if there is anything urgent. Good morning; go into the sitting-room. I'll come directly."