"Oh, if you knew--" she paused. "Hark--he is recovering his consciousness!" She clasped her hands and bent forward to listen--"may G.o.d help us now."
"How do you feel, Herr Freyer?" asked the doctor.
"Tolerably well, Doctor! Are you weeping, Mary? Did I frighten you?" He beckoned to her and she hastened to his side.
The countess" eyes grew dim as he whispered something to Anastasia.
This was the torture of the d.a.m.ned--Mary might be near him, his first glance, his first words were hers, while she, his wife, stood banished, at a distance! And she had made him suffer this torture for years--without compa.s.sion. "Oh, G.o.d, Thou art just, and Thy scales weigh exactly!" But the all-wise Father does not only punish--He also shows mercy.
"Where is she?" Anastasia repeated his words in a clear, joyous tone: "You thought you saw her in the pa.s.sage through which the chorus pa.s.sed. Oh, you must have been mistaken!" she added at a sign from the physician.
"Yes, you are right, how could she be there--it is impossible."
The countess tried to move forward, but the physician authoritatively stopped her.
The burgomaster gently approached him. "My dear Freyer--what could I do for you, have you no wish?"
"Nothing except to die! I would willingly have played until the end of the performances--for your sake--but I am content."
The drawing-master brought in the food which the physician had ordered.
The latter went to him with a gla.s.s of champagne. "Drink this, Herr Freyer; it will do you good, and then you can eat something."
But the sick man did not touch the gla.s.s: "Oh, no, I will take nothing more."
"Why not? You must eat something, or you will not recover."
"I cannot"
"Certainly you can."
"Very well, I _will_ not."
"Freyer," cried Ludwig beseechingly, "don"t be obstinate--what fancy have you taken into your head?" And he again vainly offered the strengthening draught.
"Shall I live if I drink it?" asked Freyer.
"Certainly,"
"Then I will not take it."
"Not even if I entreat you, Freyer?" asked the burgomaster.
"Oh, do not torture me--do not force me to live longer!" pleaded Freyer with a heart-rending expression. "If you knew what I have suffered--you would not grudge the release which G.o.d now sends me! I have vowed to be faithful to my duty until death--did I not, s.e.xton, on Daisenberger"s grave? I have held out as long as I could--now let me die quietly."
"Oh, my friend!" said the s.e.xton, "must we lose you?" The strong man was weeping like a child. "Live for _us_, if not for yourself."
"No, s.e.xton, if G.o.d calls me, I must not linger--for I have still another duty. I have _lived_ for you--I must _die_ for another."
"But, Herr Freyer!" said the pastor kindly, "suppose that this other person should not be benefitted by your death?"
Freyer looked as if he did not understand him.
"If this other of whom you speak--had come--to nurse and stay with you?" the pastor continued.
Freyer raised himself a little--a blissful presentiment flitted over his face like the coming of dawn.
"Suppose that your eyes did _not_ deceive you?" the burgomaster now added gently.
"Am I not dreaming--was it true--was it possible?"
"If you don"t excite yourself and will keep perfectly calm," said the physician, "I will bring--your wife!"
"My--wife? You are driving me mad. I have no wife."
"No wife--you have _no wife_?" cried a voice as if from the depths of an ocean of love and anguish, as the unhappy woman who had forced her own husband to disown her, sank sobbing before him.
A cry--"my dove!" and his head drooped on her breast
A breathless silence pervaded the room. Every one"s hands were clasped in silent prayer. No one knew whether the moment was fraught with life or death.
But it was to bring life--for the Christus must not die on the way to the cross, and Mary Magdalene must still climb to its foot--the last, steepest portion--that her destiny might be fulfilled.
The husband and wife were whispering together. The others modestly drew back.
"And you wish to die? It was not enough that you vanished from my life like a shadow--you wish to go out of the world also?" she sobbed. "Do you believe that I could then find rest on earth or in Heaven?"
"Oh, dear one, I am happy. Let me die--I have prayed for it always! G.o.d has mercifully granted it. When I am out of the world you will be a widow, and can marry another without committing a sin."
"Oh, Heaven--Joseph! I will marry no other--I love no one save you."
He smiled mournfully: "You love me now because I am dying--had I lived, you would have gone onward in the path of sin--and been lost. No, my child, I must die, that you may learn, by my little sacrifice, to understand the great atonement of Christ. I must sacrifice myself for you, as Christ sacrificed himself for the sins of mankind."
"Oh, that is not needed. G.o.d has taken the will for the deed, and given it the same power. Your lofty, patient suffering has conquered me. You need not die. I mistook you for what you were not--a G.o.d, and did not perceive what you _were_. Now I do know it. Forgive my folly. To save me you need be nothing save a man--a genuine, n.o.ble, lovable man, as you are--then no G.o.d will be required."
"Do you believe that?" Freyer looked at her with a divine expression: "Do you believe you could be content with a _mortal man_! No, my child, the same disappointment would follow as before. The flame that blazes within your soul does not feed upon earthly matter. You need a G.o.d, and your great heart will not rest until you have found Him. Therefore be comforted: The false Christ will vanish and the true one will rise from His grave."
"No, do not wrong me so, do not die, let me not atone for my sin to the dead, but to the living! Oh, do not be cruel--do not punish me so harshly. You are silent! You are growing paler still! Ah, you will go and leave me standing _alone_ half way along the road, unable either to move forward or back! Joseph, I have broken every bond with the duke, have cast aside everything which separated us--have become a poor, helpless woman, and you will abandon me--now, when I have given you my whole existence, when I am nothing but your wife."
Freyer raised himself.
"Give me the wine--now I long to live." A universal movement of delight ran through the group of friends, and the countess held the foaming cup to his lips and supported his head with one hand, that he might drink.
Then she gave him a little food and arranged him in a more comfortable position. "Come, let your wife nurse you!" she said so tenderly that all the listeners were touched. Then she laid a cooling bandage on his brow. "Ah, that does me good!" he said, but his eyes rested steadily on hers and he seemed to be alluding to something other than the external remedies, though these quickly produced their effect. His breathing gradually became more regular, his eyes closed, weakness a.s.serted itself, but he slept soundly and quietly.
The physician withdrew to soothe the strangers waiting outside by an encouraging report. Only Freyer"s friends and the pastor remained. The countess rose from beside the sleeper"s couch and stretched her arms towards Heaven: "Lend him to me, Merciful G.o.d! I have forfeited my right to him--I say it in the presence of all these witnesses--but be merciful and lend him to me long enough for me to atone for my sin--that I may not be doomed to the torture of eternal remorse!" She spoke in a low tone in order not to rouse the slumberer, but in a voice which could be distinctly heard by the others. Her hands were clasped convulsively, her eyes were raised as if to pierce to the presence of G.o.d--her n.o.ble bearing expressed the energy of despair, striving with eternity for the s.p.a.ce of a moment.
"Oh, G.o.d--oh, G.o.d, leave him with me! Hold back Thy avenging hand--grant a respite. Omnipotent One, first witness my atonement--first try whether I may not be saved by mercy! Friends, friends, pray with me!"
She clasped their hands as if imploring help. Her strength was failing.