The old man nodded to the lady, as well as his stiff neck would permit, and the woman did not notice that he ought to have thanked her, as the money was given to her and she had voluntarily shared it with him.
Countess Wildenau experienced a strange emotion of satisfaction as if now, for the first time, she had a right here, and with the gift she had purchased her share of the "bread of poverty."
At last there was a movement near the high altar. A sleepy alcolyte shuffled in, made his reverence before it and lighted a candle, which would not burn because he did not wait till the wax, which was stiffened by the cold, had melted. While he was lighting the second, the first went out and he was obliged to begin his task anew. The wand wavered to and fro a long time in the boy's numb hands, but at last the altar was lighted, the boy bowed again, and went down the stone steps into the vestry-room. This was ordinary prose, but the devout worshippers did not perceive it. They all knew the wondrous spell of fire, with which the Catholic church consecrates candles and gives their light the power to scatter the princes of darkness, and rejoiced in the victorious rays from which the evil spirits fled, they saw their gliding shadows dart in wild haste through the church and the sleepy boy who had wrought the miracle by means of his lighter disappear. The light shines, no matter who kindles it. The poor dark souls, illumined by no ray of earthly hope, eagerly absorbed its cheering rays and so long as the consecrated candles burned, the ghosts of care, discord, envy, and all the other demons of poverty were spell-bound! Now the priest entered, clad in his white robes, accompanied by two attendants.
A deathlike stillness reigned throughout the church. In a low, almost inaudible whisper he read the Latin text, which no one understood, but whose meaning every one knew, even the countess.
Everything which gives an impulse to the independent activity of the soul produces more effect than what is received in a complete form. During the incomprehensible muttering, the countess had time to recall the whole mighty drama to which it referred better and more vividly than any distinct prosaic theological essay could have described it. Again she experienced all the horrors of the Passion, as she had done in the Passion Play--only this time invisibly, instead of visibly--spiritually instead of materially--"Noli me tangere!"
The priest stooped and kissed the altar, it meant the Judas kiss. "Can you kiss those lips and not fall down to worship?" cried a voice in the countess' heart, as it had done nine years before, and a nameless longing seized upon her for the divine contact which had fallen to the traitor's lot--but "Noli me tangere" rang in the ears of the penitent Magdalene. Before her stood an altar and a priest, not Christ nor Judas, and the kiss she envied was imprinted upon white linen, not the Saviour's lips. She pressed her hands upon her heart and a few bitter tears oozed from beneath her drooping lashes. She was like the blind princess in Henrik Hertz' wonderful poem, who, when she suddenly obtained her sight, no longer knew herself among the objects which she had formerly recognized only by touch, and fancied that she had lost everything which was dear and familiar--because she had gained a new sense which she knew not how to use--a higher one than that of her groping finger tips. Then in her fear she turned to the invisible world and recognized it only, it alone had not changed with outward phenomena because alike to the blind and those who had sight it revealed itself only to the mind. It was the same with the countess. The world which she could touch with her fingers had vanished and before her newly awakened sense lay a boundless space filled with strange forms, which all seemed so unattainably distant; one only remained the same: the God whom she had never seen. And now when everything once familiar and near was transformed and removed to a vast distance, when everything appeared under a wholly different guise, it was He to whom her heart, accustomed to blindness, sought and found the way.
The priest was completely absorbed in his prayer-book. What he beheld the others felt with mysterious awe. It was like looking through a telescope into a strange world, while those who were not permitted to do so stood by and imagined what the former beheld.
The Sursum corda fell slowly from the lips of the priest. The bell sounded. "Christ is present!" The congregation, as if dazzled, bowed their faces and crossed themselves in the presence of the marvel that Heaven itself vouchsafed to descend to their unworthy selves. Again the bell sounded for the transformation, and perfect silence followed--while the miracle was being wrought by which God entered the mouths of mortals to be the bread of life to mankind.
This was the bread of the poor and simple-hearted, whose crumbs the Countess Wildenau had that day stolen and was eating with secret shame.
The mass was over, the priest pronounced the benediction and withdrew to the vestry-room. The people put out their bits of wax candles--clouds of light smoke filled the church. It was like Christmas Eve, after the children have gone to bed and the candles on the tree are extinguished--but their hearts are still full of Christmas joy. The countess knew not why the thought entered her mind, but she suddenly recollected that Christmas was close at hand and she no longer had any child on whom she could bestow gifts. True, she had never done this herself, but always left Josepha to attend to the matter. This year, however, she had thought she would do it, now it was too late. Suddenly she saw a child's eyes gazing happily at a lighted tree and below it a manger, with the same eyes sparkling back. The whole world, heaven and earth were glittering with children's beaming eyes, but the most beautiful of all--those of her own boy, were closed--no grateful glance smiled upon her amid the universal joy, for her there was no Christmas, for it was the mother's day, and she was not a mother. "Child in the manger, bend down to the sinner who mourns neglected love at Thy feet." Sinking on the kneeling bench, she sobbed bitterly. It was dark and silent. The congregation had gone, the candles on the altar had been extinguished as fast as possible--the ever-burning lamp cast dull red rays upon the altar, dawn was glimmering through the frost-covered window panes. All was still--only in the distance the cocks were crowing. Again she remembered that evening when her father came and she had knelt with Freyer in the church before the Pieta, until the crowing of the cock reminded her how easy it was to betray love and fidelity. Rising wearily from her knees, she dragged herself to a Pieta above a side altar, and pressed her lips upon the wounds of the divine body. She gazed to see if the eyes would not once more open, but it remained rigid and lifeless, this time no echo answered the mute pleading of the warm lips. No second miracle was wrought for her, the hand which guided her had been withdrawn, and like the poorest and most humble mortal she was forced to grope her way wearily along the arid path of tradition;--it was just, she had deserved nothing better, and the great discovery which came to her that day was that this path also led to God.