On the Cross Part 47

"Countess Wildenau is said to have fallen into disgrace already; she did not ride in the queen's carriage at the recent great parade."

"That is perfectly natural. It was to be expected, when a lady so unaccustomed to put any constraint upon herself as Countess Wildenau was appointed to such a position."

"She is said to make constant blunders. If she chooses, she keeps the queen and the whole court waiting. She is reported to have arrived at court fifteen minutes too late a short time ago."

"And to have forgotten to present a number of ladies."

"People are indignant with her."

"Poor woman, she takes infinite trouble, but the place is not a suitable one for her--she is absent-minded and makes mistakes, which are unpardonable in a mistress of ceremonies."

"Yes, if the queen's cousin, the Hereditary Prince of Metten-Barnheim did not uphold her, the queen would have dropped her long ago. She is seen at court only when she is acting as representative. She has not succeeded in establis.h.i.+ng personal relations with Her Majesty."

Such, at the end of a few months, were the opinions of society, and they were just.

It seemed as though the curse of those whom she had deserted, rested upon her--do what she would, she had no success in this position.

As on the mountain peak towering into the upper air, every warm current condenses into a cloud, so in the cool, transparent atmosphere of very lofty and conspicuous positions the faintest breath of secret struggles and pa.s.sions seems to condense into ma.s.ses of clouds which often gather darkly around the most brilliant personalities, veiling their traits.

The pa.s.sionate, romantic impulse, which was constantly at war with the aristocratic birth and education of the countess, was one of those currents which unconsciously and involuntarily must enter as an alien element in the crystalline clearness of these peaks of society.

This was the explanation of the mystery that the countess, greatly admired in private life and always a welcome guest at court, could not fill an official position successfully. The slight cloud which, in her private life, only served to surround her with a halo of romance which rendered the free independent woman of rank doubly interesting, was absolutely unendurable in a lady of the court representing her sovereign! There everything must be clear, calm, official. The impersonal element of royalty, as it exists in our day, specially in the women of reigning houses, will not permit any individuality to make itself prominent near the throne. All pa.s.sionate emotions and peculiarities are abhorrent, because, even in individuals, they are emanations of the seething popular elements which sovereigns must at once rule and fear.

Countess Wildenau's constant excitement, restless glances, absence of mind, and feverish alternations of mood unconsciously expressed the vengeance of the spirit of the common people insisted in her husband--and the queen, in her subtle sensibility, therefore had a secret timidity and aversion to the new mistress of ceremonies which she could not conquer. Thus the first mists in the atmosphere near the throne arose, the vapors gathered into clouds--but the clouds were seen by the keen-eyed public--as the sun of royal favor vanished behind them.

It is far better never to have been prominent than to be forced to retire. The countess was a great lady, whose power seemed immovable and una.s.sailable, so long as she lived independently--now it was seen that she was on the verge of a downfall! And now there was no occasion for further consideration of the woman hitherto so much envied. Vengeance could fearlessly be taken upon her for always having handsomer toilettes, giving better dinners, attracting more admirers--and being allowed to do unpunished what would be unpardonable in others.

"A woman who is continually occupied with herself cannot be mistress of ceremonies, I see that clearly," she said one day to the prince. "If any position requires self-denial, it is this. And self-denial has never been my forte. I ought to have known that before accepting the place. People imagine that the court would be the very field where the seeds of egotism would flourish most abundantly! It is not true; whoever wishes to reap for himself should remain aloof, only the utmost unselfishness, the most rigid fulfilment of duty can exist there. But I, Prince, am a spoiled, ill-trained creature, who learned nothing during the few years of my unhappy marriage save to hate constraint and shun pain! What is to be done with such a useless mortal?"

"Love her," replied Prince Emil, as quietly as if he were speaking of a game of chess, "and see that she is placed in a position where she need not obey, but merely command. Natures created to rule should not serve!

The pebble is destined to pave the path of daily life--the diamond to sparkle. Who would upbraid the latter because it serves no other purpose? Its value lies in itself, but only connoisseurs know how to prize it!" Thus her friend always consoled her and strengthened her natural tendencies. But where men are too indulgent to us, destiny is all the more severe--this is the amends for the moral sins of society, the equalization of the undeserved privileges of individuals compared with the sad fate of thousands.

Prince Emil's efforts could not succeed in soothing the pangs of Madeleine von Wildenau's conscience--for he did not know the full extent of her guilt. If he knew all, she would lose him, too.

Josepha took care to torture the mother's heart by the reports sent from Italy.

Freyer was silent. Since that bitter letter, which he wrote, she had heard nothing more from him. He had hidden himself in his solitary retreat as a sick lion seeks the depths of its cave, and she dared not go to him there, though a secret yearning often made her start from her sleep with her husband's name on her lips, and tears in her eyes.

In addition to this she was troubled by Herr Wildenau, who was becoming still more urgent in his offers to purchase the hunting-castle, and often made strangely significant remarks, as though he was on the track of some discovery. The child with the treacherous resemblance was far away--but if this man was watching--_that_ fact itself might attract his notice because it dated from the day when he made the first allusions. She lay awake many nights pondering over this mystery, but could not discover what had given him the clew to her secret. She did not suspect that it was the child himself who, in an unwatched moment, had met the curious stranger and made fatal answers to his cunning questions, telling him of "the beautiful lady who came to see 'Goth'

who had been G.o.d--in Ammergau! And that he loved the beautiful lady dearly--much better than Mother Josepha!"

Question and answer were easy, but the inference was equally so. It was evident to the inquisitor that a relation existed here quite compromising enough to serve as a handle against the countess, if the exact connection could be discovered. Cousin Wildenau and his brother resolved from that day forth to watch the countess' mysterious actions sharply--this was the latest and most interesting sport of the disinherited branch of the Wildenau family.

But the game they were pursuing had a powerful protector in the prince, they must work slowly and cautiously.

At court also it was his influence which sustained her. The queen, out of consideration for him, showed the utmost patience in dealing with the countess spite of her total absence of sympathy with her. Thus the unfortunate woman lived in constant uncertainty. Her soul was filled with bitterness by the experiences she now endured. She felt like dagger thrusts the malevolence, the contempt with which she had been treated since the sun of royal favor had grown dim. She lost her self-command, and no longer knew what she was doing. Her pride rebelled. A Wildenau, a Princess von Prankenberg, need not tolerate such treatment! Her usual graciousness deserted her and, in its place, she a.s.sumed a cold, haughty scorn, which she even displayed while performing the duties of her office, and thereby still more incensed every one against her. Persons, whom she ought to have honored she ignored. Gradations of rank and lists of n.o.ble families, the alpha and omega of a mistress of ceremonies, were never in her mind. People ent.i.tled to the first position were relegated to the third, and similar blunders were numerous. Complaints and annoyances of all kinds poured in, and at a state dinner in honor of the visit of a royal prince, she was compelled to endure, in the presence of the whole court, a rebuke from the queen who specially distinguished a person whom she had slighted.

This dinner became fateful to her. Wherever she turned, she beheld triumphant or sarcastic smiles--wherever she approached a group, conversation ceased with the marked suddenness which does not seek to conceal that the new-comer has been the subject of the talk. Nay, she often encountered a glance which seemed to say: "Why do you still linger among us?"

It happened also that the prince had been summoned to Cannes by his father's illness and was not at hand to protect her. She had hoped that he would return in time for the dinner, but he did not come. She was entirely deserted. A few compa.s.sionate souls, like the kind-hearted d.u.c.h.ess whom she met at the Pa.s.sion Play, her ladies-in-waiting, and some maids of honor, joined her, but she felt in their graciousness a pity which humbled her more than all the insults. And her friends! The gentlemen who belonged to the circle of her intimate acquaintances had for some time adopted a more familiar tone, as if to imply that she must accept whatever they choose to offer. She was no longer even beautiful--a pallid, grief-worn face, with hollow eyes gazing hopelessly into vacancy, found no admirers in this circle. And as every look, every countenance wore a hostile expression, her own image gazed reproachfully at her from the mirror, the dazzling fair neck with its marvellous contours, supported a head whose countenance was weary and prematurely aged. "It is all over with you!" cried the mirror! "It is all over with you!" smiled the lips of society. "It is all over with you, you may be glad if we still come to your dinners!" the wine-scented breath of her former intimate friends insultingly near her seemed to whisper.

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!