Barbara Blomberg, Volume 10.

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BARBARA BLOMBERG

By Georg Ebers

Volume 10.

CHAPTER XVI.

On the way home Barbara often pressed her left hand with her right to
assure herself that she was not dreaming.

This time she found her husband in the house. At the first glance
Pyramus saw that something unusual had happened; but she gave him no time
to question her, only glanced around to see if they were alone, and then
cried, as if frantic: "I will bear it no longer. You must know it too.
But it is a great secret." Then she made him swear that he, too, would
keep it strictly, and in great anxiety he obeyed.

He, like Barbara's father, had supposed that the Emperor's son had
entered the world only to leave it again. Barbara's "I no longer have a
child; it was taken from me," he had interpreted in the same way as the
old captain, and, from delicacy of feeling, had never again mentioned the
subject in her presence.

While taking the oath, he had been prepared for the worst; but when his
wife, in passionate excitement, speaking so fast that the words fair
tumbled over one another, told him how she had been robbed of her boy;
how his imperial father had treated him; how she had longed for him;
what prayers she had uttered in his behalf; how miserable she had been
in her anxiety about this child; and, now, that Dona Magdalena's letter
permitted her to cherish the highest and greatest hopes for the boy,
the tall, strong man stood before her with downcast eyes, like a detected
criminal, his hand gripping the edge of the top of the table which
separated her from him.

Barbara saw his broad, arched chest rise and fall, and wondered why his
manly features were quivering; but ere she had time to utter a single
soothing word, he burst forth: "I made the vow and will be silent; but
to-morrow, or in a year or two, it will be in everybody's mouth, and
then, then My good name! Honour!"

Fierce indignation overwhelmed Barbara, and, no longer able to control
herself, she exclaimed: "What did it matter whether Death or his father
snatched the child from me? The question is, whether you knew that I am
his mother, and it was not concealed from you. Nevertheless, you came
and sought me for your wife! That is what happened! And--you know this
--you are as much or little dishonoured by me, the mother of the living
child, as of the dead one. Out upon the honour which is harmed by
gossip! What slanderous tongues say of me as a disgrace I deem the
highest honour; but if you are of a different opinion, and held it when
you wooed me, you would be wiser to prate less loudly of the proud word
'honour,' and we will separate."

Pyramus had listened to these accusations and the threat with trembling
lips. His simple but upright mind felt that she was right, so far as he
was concerned, and she was more beautiful in her anger than he had seen
her since the brilliant days of her youthful pride. The fear of losing
her seized his poor heart, so wholly subject to her, with sudden power
and, stammering an entreaty for forgiveness, he confessed that the
surprise had bewildered him, and that he thought he had showed in the
course of the last ten years how highly, in spite of people's gossip,
he prized her. He held out his large honest hand with a pleading look
as he spoke, and she placed hers in it for a short time.

Then she went to church to collect her thoughts and relieve her
overburdened heart. Boundless contempt for the man to whom she was
united filled it; yet she felt that she owed him a debt of gratitude,
that he was weak only through love, and that, for her children's sake,
she must continue to wear the yoke which she had taken upon herself.

His existence henceforth became of less and less importance to her
feelings and actions, especially as he left the management of their two
boys to her. He had reason to be satisfied with it, for she provided
Conrad with the best instruction, that the might choose between the army
and the legal profession; his younger brother she intended for the
priesthood, and the boy's inclination harmonized with her choice.

The fear that the Emperor Charles might yet commit the child she loved
to the monastery never left her. But she thought that she might induce
Heaven to relinquish its claim upon her John, whom, moreover, it seemed
to have destined for the secular life, by consecrating her youngest child
to its service.

While she did not forget her household, her mind was constantly in Spain.
Her walks were usually directed toward the palace, to inquire how the
recluse in San Yuste was faring, and whether any rumour mentioned her
imperial son.

After the great victory gained by Count Egmont against the military
forces of France, eleven months after the battle of St. Quentin, there
was enough to be seen in Brussels. The successful general was greeted
with enthusiastic devotion. Egmont's name was in every one's mouth, and
when she, too, saw the handsome, proud young hero, the idol, as it were,
of a whole nation, gorgeous in velvet, silk, and glittering gems, curbing
his fiery steed and bowing to the shouting populace with a winning smile,
she thought she caught a glimpse of the future, and beheld the
predecessor of him who some day would receive similar homage.

Why should she not have yielded to such hopes? Already there was a
rumour that the daughter of the Emperor and that Johanna Van der Gheynst,
who had been Charles's first love, Margaret of Parma, her own son's
sister, had been chosen to rule the Netherlands as regent.

Why should less honours await Charles's son than his daughter?

But the festal joy in the gay capital was suddenly extinguished, for in
the autumn of the year that, in March, had seen Ferdinand, the Emperor's
brother, assume the imperial crown, a rumour came that the recluse of San
Yuste had closed his eyes, and a few days after it was verified.

It was Barbara's husband who told her of the loss which had befallen her
and the world. He did this with the utmost consideration, fearing the
effect of this agitating news upon his wife; but Barbara only turned
pale, and then, with tears glittering in her eyes, said softly, "He, too,
was only a mortal man."

Then she withdrew to her own room, and even on the following day saw
neither her husband nor her children. She had long expected Charles's
death, yet it pierced the inmost depths of her being.

This sorrow was something sacred, which belonged to her and to her alone.
It would have seemed a profanation to reveal it to her unloved husband,
and she found strength to shut it within herself.

How desolate her heart seemed! It had lost its most distinguished object
of love or hate.

Through long days she devoted herself in quiet seclusion to the memory of
the dead, but soon her active imagination unfolded its wings again, and
with the new grief mingled faint hopes for the boy in Spain, which
increased to lofty anticipations and torturing anxiety.

The imperial father was dead. What now awaited the omnipotent ruler's
son?

How had Charles determined his fate?

Was it possible that he still intended him for the monastic life, now
that he had become acquainted with his talents and tastes?

Since Barbara had learned that her son had won his father's heart, and
that the Emperor, as it were, had made him his own with a kiss, she had
grown confident in the hope that Charles would bestow upon him the
grandeur, honours, and splendour which she had anticipated when she
resigned him at Landshut, and to which his birth gave him a claim.
But her early experience that what she expected with specially joyful
security rarely happened,--constantly forced upon her mind the, fear that
the dead man's will would consign John to the cloister.

So the next weeks passed in a constant alternation of oppressive fears
and aspiring hopes, the nights in torturing terrors.

All the women of the upper classes wore mourning, and with double reason;
for, soon after the news of the Emperor's death reached Brussels, King
Philip's second wife, Mary Tudor, of England, also died. Therefore no
one noticed that Barbara wore widow's weeds, and she was glad that she
could do so without wounding Pyramus.

A part of the elaborate funeral rites which King Philip arranged in
Brussels during the latter part of December in honour of his dead father
was the procession which afforded the authorities of the Brabant capital
an opportunity to display the inventive faculty, the love of splendour,
the learning, and the wit which, as members of flourishing literary
societies, they constantly exercised. In the pageant was a ship with
black sails, at whose keel, mast, and helm stood Hope with her anchor,
Faith with her chalice, and Love with the burning heart. Other similar
scenic pieces made the sincerity of the grief for the dead questionable,
and yet many real tears were shed for him. True, the wind which swelled
the sails of the sable ship bore also many an accusation and curse; among
the spectators of the procession there were only too many whose mourning
robes were worn not for the dead monarch, but their own nearest
relatives, whom his pitiless edicts had given to the executioner
as readers of the Bible or heterodox.

These displays, so pleasing to the people of her time and her new home,
were by no means great or magnificent enough for Barbara. Even the most
superb show seemed to her too trivial for this dead man.

She was never absent from any mass for the repose of his soul, and she
not only took part outwardly in the sacred ceremony, but followed it with
fervent devotion. As a transfigured spirit, he would perceive how she
had once hated him; but he should also see how tenderly she still loved
him.

Now that he was dead, it would be proved in what way he had remembered
the son whom, in his solitude, he had learned to love, what life path
John had been assigned by his father.

But longingly as Barbara thought of Spain and of her boy, often as she
went to the Dubois house and to the regent's home to obtain news, nothing
could be heard of her child.

Many provisions of the imperial will were known, but there was no
mention of her son. Yet Charles could not have forgotten him, and Adrian
protested that it would soon appear that he had not omitted him in his
last will, and this was done in a manner which indicated that he knew
more than he would or could confess.

All this increased Barbara's impatience to the highest degree, and
induced her to watch and question with twofold zeal. On no account would
she have left the capital during this period of decision, and, though her
husband earnestly entreated her to go to the springs, whose waters had
proved so beneficial, she remained in Brussels.

In August she saw King Philip set out for Spain, and Margaret of Parma,
her son's sister, assume the government of the Netherlands as regent.

On various occasions she succeeded in obtaining a near view of the
stately-lady, with her clever; kindly and, spite of the famous down
on her upper lip, by no means unlovely features, and her attractive
appearance gave Barbara courage to request an audience, in order to learn
from her something about her child. But the effort was vain, for the
duchess had had no news of the existence of a second son of her father;
and this time it was Granvelle who prevented the regent from receiving
the woman who would probably have spoken to her of the boy concerning
whose fate King Philip had yet reached no determination.

Barbara spent the month of October in depression caused by this fresh
disappointment, but it, too, passed without bringing her any
satisfaction.

It seemed almost foolish to lull herself further with ambitious
expectations, but the hope a mother's heart cherishes for her child does
not die until its last throb; and if the Emperor Charles's will did not
give her John his rights, then the gracious Virgin would secure them, if
necessary, by a miracle.

Her faithful clinging to hope was rewarded, for when one day, with
drooping head, she returned home from another futile errand, she found
Hannibal Melas there, as bearer of important news.

The Emperor's last will had a codicil, which concerned a son of his
Majesty; but, a few days before his end, Charles had also remembered
Barbara, and commissioned Ogier Bodart, Adrian's successor, to buy a life
annuity for her in Brussels. Hannibal had learned all this from secret
despatches received by Granvelle the day before. Informing her of their
contents might cost him his place; but how often she had entreated him to
think of her if any news came from Valladolid of a boy named Geronimo or
John, and how much kindness she had showed him when he was only a poor
choir boy!

At last, at last the most ardent desire of the mother's heart was to be
fulfilled. She saw in the codicil the bridge which would lead her son to
splendour and magnificence, and up to the last hour of his life the
Emperor Charles had also remembered her.

She felt not only relieved of a burden, but as if borne on wings. Which
of these two pieces of news rendered her the happier, she could not have
determined. Yet she did not once think of the addition to her income.
What was that in comparison to the certainty that to the last Charles did
not forget her!

It made her husband happy to see her sunny cheerfulness. Never had she
played and romped with the children in such almost extravagant mirth.
Nay, more! For the first time the officer's modest house echoed with the
singing of its mistress.

Though her voice was no longer so free from sharpness and harshness as in
the old days, it by no means jarred upon the ear; nay, every tone
revealed its admirable training. She had broken the long silence with
Josquin's motet, "Quia amore langueo," and in her quiet chamber dedicated
it, as it were, to the man to whom this cry of longing had been so dear.
Then, in memory of and gratitude to him, other religious songs which he
had liked to hear echoed from her lips.

The little German ballads which she afterward sang, to the delight of her
boys, deeply moved her husband's heart, and she herself found that it was
no insult to art when, with the voice that she now possessed, she again
devoted herself to the pleasure of singing.

If the codicil brought her son what she desired, she could once more, if
her voice lost the sharpness which still clung to it, serve her beloved
art as a not wholly unworthy priestess, and then, perchance, she would
again possess the right, so long relinquished, of calling herself happy.

She would go the next day to Appenzelder, who always greeted her kindly
when they met in the street, and ask his advice.

If only Wolf had been there!

He understood how to manage women's voices also, and could have given her
the best directions how to deal with the new singing exercises.

It seemed as though in these days not one of her wishes remained
unfulfilled, for the very next afternoon, just as she was dressing to
call upon the leader of the boy choir, the servant announced a stranger.

A glad presentiment hurried her into the vestibule, and there stood Sir
Wolf Hartschwert in person, an aristocratic cavalier in his black Spanish
court costume. He had become a man indeed, and his appearance did not
even lack the "sosiego," the calm dignity of the Castilian noble, which
gave Don Louis Quijada so distinguished an appearance.

True, his greeting was more eager and cordial than the genuine "sosiego"
--which means "repose"--would have permitted. Even the manner in which
Wolf expressed his pleasure in the new melody of Barbara's voice, and
whispered an entreaty to send the children and Frau Lamperi--who came to
greet him--away for a short time, was anything but patient.

What had he in view?

Yet it must be something good.

When the light shone through her flower-decked window upon his face,
she thought she perceived this by the smile hovering around his lips.
She was not mistaken, nor did she wait long for the joyous tidings she
expected; his desire to tell her what, with the exception of the regent--
to whom his travelling companion, the Grand Prior Don Luis de Avila, was
perhaps just telling it as King Philip's envoy--no human being in the
Netherlands could yet know, was perhaps not much less than hers to hear
it.

Scarcely an hour before he had dismounted in Brussels with the nobleman,
and his first visit was to her, whom his news must render happy, even
happier than it did him and the woman in the house near the palace, whose
heart cherished the Emperor's son scarcely less warmly than his own
mother's.

On the long journey hither he had constantly anticipated the pleasure of
telling every incident in succession, just as it had happened; but
Barbara interrupted his first sentence with an inquiry how her John was
faring.

"He is so well that scarcely ever has any boy in the happiest time of his
life fared better," was the reply; and its purport, as well as the tone
in which it was uttered, entered Barbara's heart like angels' greetings
from the wide-open heavens. But Wolf went on with his report, and when,
in spite of hundreds of questions, he at last completed the main
points, his listener staggered, as if overcome by wine, to the image of
the Virgin on the pilaster, and with uplifted hands threw herself on her
knees before it.

Wolf, unobserved, silently stole away.

CHAPTER XVII.

The following afternoon Wolf sought Barbara again, and now for the first
time succeeded in relating regularly and clearly what, constantly
interrupted by her impatience, he had told in a confused medley the day
before. Pyramus, as usual, was away, and Barbara had taken care that no
one should interrupt them.

Deep silence pervaded the comfortable room, and Wolf had seated himself
in the arm-chair opposite to the young wife when, at her entreaty, he
began to tell the story again. She had informed him of Dona Magdalena's
letter, and that it took her to the Emperor's residence in San Yuste. At
that point her friend's fresh tidings began.

In the spring of the previous year Wolf had again been summoned from
Valladolid, where in the winter he directed the church singing as prinnen
of the religious music, to Cuacos, near San Yuste, where Quijada's wife
lived with her foster-son Geronimo. From there he had often gone with
Dona Magdalena and the boy to the Emperor's residence, and frequently saw
him.

The account given in the letter written by Quijada's wife also applied to
the last months of the imperial recluse's existence. Doubtless he
sometimes devoted himself to pious exercises and quiet meditation, but he
was usually busied with political affairs and the reading and dictating
of despatches. Even at that time he received many visitors. When
Geronimo came from Cuacos, he was permitted to go in and out of his
apartments freely, and the Emperor even seemed to prefer him to Don
Carlos, his grandson, King Philip's only son, who was destined to become
the head of his house; at least, Charles's conduct favoured this opinion.

On his return to Spain he had made his grandson's acquaintance in
Valladolid.

He was a boy who had well-formed, somewhat sickly features, and a fragile
body. Of course the grandfather felt the deepest interest in him, and
the influence of the famous victor in so many battles upon the twelve-
year-old lad was a most beneficial one.

But Charles had scarcely left Valladolid when the passionate boy's
extremely dangerous tastes burst forth with renewed violence. The
recluse student of human nature had probably perceived them, for when his
tutor, and especially the young evildoer's aunt, Juana, the Emperor
Charles's daughter, earnestly entreated him to let the grandson, whose
presence would disturb him very little, come to San Yuste, because his
influence over Don Carlos would be of priceless value, the grandfather
most positively refused the request.

On the other hand, the Emperor had not only tolerated his son Geronimo
near him, but rejoiced in his presence, for the quiet sufferer's eyes had
sparkled when he saw him. Wolf himself had often witnessed this
delightful sight.

How Barbara's heart swelled, how eagerly she listened, as Wolf described
how well founded was his Majesty's affection for this beautiful,
extremely lovable, docile, true-hearted, and, moreover, frank, boy!

True, he showed as yet little taste for knowledge and all that can be
learned from books; but he devoted himself with fiery zeal to the
knightly exercises which since his Majesty's death Quijada himself was
directing, and in which he promised to become a master. Besides, by
appealing to his ambition, he could be induced to put forth all his
powers, and, if his teachers aimed at what they studiously omitted, it
would not be difficult to make a scholar of him.

He had not remained unnoticed by any of the great lords who had sought
the Emperor in Sal Yuste and met him. The Venetian ambassador Bodoaro,
had asked the name of the splendid young noble.

Even when Death was already stretching hi hand toward the Emperor, he was
still overburdened with business, and the heretical agitation which was
discovered at that time in Spain had caused him much sorrow, especially as
men and women whom he knew personally, belonging to the distinguished
families of Posa and De Rojas, has taken part in it.

The monarch's end came more quickly than was expected. He had been
unable to attend the auto-da-fe at which the heretics were committed to
the flames. He would have done so gladly, and after this mournful
experience even regretted that he had granted the German misleader,
Luther, the safe conduct promised.

Before a fatal weakness suddenly attacked him his health had been rather
better than before; then his voice failed, and Quijada was compelled to
kneel beside his bed that he might understand what he wished to impress
upon him. While doing so, the dying man had expressed the desire that
Don Luis would commend Geronimo to the love of his son Philip.

He had also remembered the love of better days, and when Barbara insisted
upon learning what he had said of her, Wolf, who had heard it from Don
Luis, did not withhold it.

He had complained of her perverse nature. Had she obediently gone to the
convent, he might have spared himself and her the sorrow of holding her
so rigidly aloof from his person. Finally, he had spoken of her singing
with rapturous delight. At night the "Quia amore langueo" from the Mary
motet had echoed softly from his lips, and when he perceived that Don
Luis had heard him, he murmured that this peerless cry of longing,
reminded him not of the earthly but the heavenly love.

At these words Barbara hid her face in her hands, and Wolf paused until
she had controlled the sobs which shook her breast.

Then he went on, she listening devoutly with wet eyes and clasped hands.

The Archbishop of Toledo was summoned, and predicted that Charles would
die on the day after to-morrow, St. Matthew's day. He was born on St.
Matthias's day, and he would depart from life on St. Matthew's,--
[September 12, 1558]--Matthias's brother and fellow-disciple.

So it was, and Barbara remembered that his son and hers had also seen the
light of the world on St. Matthias's day.

Charles's death-agony was severe. When Dr. Mathys at last said softly to
those who were present, "Jam moritur,"--[Now he is dying]--the loud cry
"Jesus!" escaped his lips, and he sank back upon the pillows lifeless.

Here Wolf was again obliged to give his weeping friend time to calm
herself.

What he now had to relate--both knew it--was well suited to transform the
tears which Barbara was shedding in memory of the beloved dead to tears
of joy.

While she was wiping her eyes, Wolf described the great anxiety which,
after Charles's death, overpowered the Quijadas in Villagarcia.

The codicil had existed, and Don Luis was familiar with its contents.
But how would King Philip take it?

Dona Magdalena knew not what to do with herself in her anxiety.

The immediate future must decide Geronimo's fate, so she went on a
pilgrimage with her darling to the Madonna of Guadelupe to pray for the
repose of the Emperor's soul, and also to beseech the gracious Virgin
mercifully to remember him, Geronimo.

Until that time the boy had believed Don Luis and his wife to be his
parents, and had loved Dona Magdalena like the most affectionate son.

He had not even the slightest suspicion that he was a child of the
Emperor, and was perfectly satisfied with the lot of being the son of a
grandee and the child of so good, tender, and beautiful a mother.

This exciting expectation on the part of the Quijadas lasted nearly a
whole year, for it was that length of time before Don Philip finally left
the Netherlands and reached Valladolid.

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