THE RETURN HOME
The "Wies" towered like an island from amid a grey sea of clouds. All the mountains of Trauchgau and Pfront, Allgau and Tyrol, which surround it like distant shores and cliffs, had vanished in the mist. The windows in the comfortable tavern were lighted and a fire was blazing on the hearth. One little lamp after another shone from the quiet farm-houses.
The lonely church now lay silent! Silent, too, was the Wiesherrle in his glass shrine, while the wayfarer pressed steadily down through the mist toward home and the cross! Freyer moved on more and more swiftly across the hill-sides and through the woods till he reached the path leading down the mountain to the "Halb-Ammer," which flowed at its base. Gradually he emerged from the strata of mist, and now a faint ray of moonlight fell upon his path.
Hour after hour he pursued his way. One after another the lights in the houses were extinguished. The world sank into slumber, and the villages were wrapped in silence.
In the churches only the ever-burning lamps still blazed, and he made them his resting-places.
The clock in the church steeple of Altenau struck twelve as he passed through. A belated tippler approached him with the reeling step of a drunkard, but started back when he saw his face, staring after him with dull bewildered eyes as if he beheld some spectre of the night.
"An image of horror I glide through the land!" Freyer murmured softly. To-night he did not sing his song. This evening his pain was soothed, his soul was preparing for another pæan--on the cross!
Now the little church of Kappel appeared before him on its green hill, like a pious sign-post pointing the way to Ammergau. But patches of snow still lingered amid the pale green of the Spring foliage, for it is late ere the Winter is conquered by the milder season and the keen wind swept down the broad highway, making the wayfarer's teeth chatter with cold. He felt that his vital warmth was nearly exhausted, he had walked two days with no hot food. For the soup at the parsonage that day was merely lukewarm--he stood still a moment, surely he had dreamed that! He could not have begged for bread? Yes, it was even so. A tremor shook his limbs: Have you fallen so low? He tried to button his thin coat--his fingers were stiff with cold. Ten years ago when he left Ammergau, it was midsummer--now winter still reigned on the heights. "Only let me not perish on the highway," he prayed, "only let me reach home."
It was now bright cold moonlight, all the outlines of the mountains stood forth distinctly, the familiar contours of the Ammergau peaks became more and more visible.
Now he stood on the Ammer bridge where what might be termed the suburb of Ammergau, the hamlet of Lower Ammergau, begins. The moon-lit river led the eye in a straight line to the centre of the Ammer valley--there lay the sacred mountains of his home--the vast side scenes of the most gigantic stage in the world, the Kofel with its cross, and the other peaks. Opposite on the left the quiet chapel of St. Gregory amid boundless meadows, beside the fall of the Leine, the Ammer's wilder sister. There he had watched his horses when a boy, down near the chapel where the blue gentians had garlanded his head when he flung himself on the grass, intoxicated by his own exuberant youth and abundance of life.
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 thorny 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 Passion Theatre--the consecrated space where once for hours he was permitted to feel himself a God.
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 God!
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 Passion 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 passing 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 passed 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 passion 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 noble 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 God."
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 God 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 gratitude from Freyer rewarded the faithful care, then his eyes closed, and his friend gazed at him with deep melancholy.