Now she repented that she did not use the carriage--she could scarcely move. It seemed at every step as if she were sinking into the earth instead of advancing, as if she should never reach the goal, as if the road stretched longer and longer before her. A burning noonday sun blazed down upon her head, the perspiration stood on her forehead and her lips were parched, her feet were swollen and lame from the night-watch at her father's bedside and the exhausting journey which had followed it. At last, with much effort she reached the theatre. The first part of the performance was just over--throngs of people were pouring out of the sultry atmosphere into the open air and hurrying to get their dinners. But every face wore a look of the deepest emotion and sorrow--on every lip was the one word: "Freyer!" The countess stole through the throngs like a criminal, holding her sunshade lower and drawing her veil more closely over her face. Only let her escape recognition now, avoid meeting any one who would speak to her--this was her mortal dread. If she could only render herself invisible! With the utmost exertion she forced her way through, and now she could at least take breath after the stifling pressure. But everything around her was now so bare, she was so exposed as she crossed the broad open space--she felt as though she were the target for every curious eye among the spectators. She clenched her teeth in her embarrassment--it was fairly running the gauntlet. She could no longer think or feel anything except a desire that the earth would swallow her. At last, tottering, trembling, almost overcome by heat and haste, she reached the welcome shade on the northern side of the theatre and stopped, this was her goal. Leaning against the wall, she half concealed herself behind a post at the door. Women carrying baskets passed her; they were admitted because they were bringing their husbands' food. They glanced curiously at the dusty stranger leaning wearily behind the door. "Who can she be? Somebody who isn't quite right, that's certain!" The tortured woman read this query on every face. Here, too, she was in a pillory. Oh, power and rank--before the wooden fence surrounding the great drama of Christian thought, you crumble and are nothing save what you are in and through love!
The Countess Wildenau waited humbly at the door of the Passion Theatre until the compassionate box-opener should come to admit her.
How long she stood there she did not know. Burning drops fell from brow and eyes, but she endured it like a suffering penitent. This was her way to the cross.
The clock struck one. The flood was surging back from the village: "Oh, God, save me!" she prayed, trembling; her agony had reached its height. But now the man could not come until everyone was seated.
And Freyer, what was he doing in his dressing-room, which she knew he never left during an intermission? Was he resting or eating some strengthening food? Probably one of the women who passed had taken him something? She envied the poor women with their baskets because they were permitted to do their duty.
Then--she scarcely dared to believe it--the box-opener came running out.
"I've kept you waiting a long time, haven't I? But every one has had his hands full. Now come quick!"
He slipped stealthily forward, beckoning to her to follow, and led her through by-ways and dark corners, often concealing her with his own person when anyone approached. The signal for raising the curtain was given just as they reached a hidden corner in the proscenium, where the chorus entered. "Sit down there on the stool," he whispered. "You can't see much, it is true, but you can hear everything. It's not a good place, yet it's better than nothing."
"Certainly!" replied the countess, breathlessly; she could not see, coming from the bright sunshine into the dusky space; she sank half fainting on the stool to which he pointed; she was on the stage of the Passion, near Freyer! True, she said to herself, that he must not be permitted to suspect it, lest he should be unable to finish his task; but at least she was near him--her fate was approaching its fulfillment.
"You have done me a priceless service; I thank you." She pressed a bank note into the man's hand.