Barbara Blomberg, Volume 3.

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BARBARA BLOMBERG

By Georg Ebers

Volume 3.

CHAPTER XII.

During the singing in the chapel on the fast day Barbara had waited
vainly for a word of appreciation from the Emperor. The Queen of Hungary
had gone to the chase, and the monarch had remained in his apartments,
while she had done her best below. A few lords and ladies of the court,
several priests, knights, and pages had been the only listeners.

This had sorely irritated her easily wounded sensitiveness, but she had
appeared at the rehearsal in the New Scales on the following morning.
Again she reaped lavish praise, but several times she met Appenzelder's
well-founded criticisms with opposition.

The radiant cheerfulness which, the day before yesterday, had invested
her nature with an irresistible charm had vanished.

When the tablatures were at last laid aside, and the invitation to sing
in the Golden Cross did not yet arrive, her features and her whole manner
became so sullen that even some of the choir boys noticed it.

Since the day before a profound anxiety had filled her whole soul, and
she herself wondered that it had been possible for her to conquer it just
now during the singing.

How totally different an effect she had expected her voice--which even
the greatest connoisseurs deemed worthy of admiration--to produce upon
the music-loving Emperor!

What did she care if the evening of the day before yesterday the Queen of
Hungary had paid her fine compliments and assured her of the high
approval of her imperial brother, since Appenzelder had informed her
yesterday that it was necessary to conceal from his Majesty the fact that
a woman was occupying the place of the lad from Cologne, Johannes. The
awkward giant had been unfriendly to women ever since, many years before,
his young wife had abandoned him for a Neapolitan officer, and his bad
opinion of the fairer sex had been by no means lessened when Barbara, at
this communication, showed with pitiless frankness the anger and
mortification which it aroused in her mind. A foul fiend, he assured
Gombert, was hidden in that golden-haired delight of the eyes with the
siren voice; but the leader of the orchestra had interceded for her, and
thought that her complaint was just. So great an artist was too good to
fill the place of substitute for a sick boy who sang for low wages. She
had obliged him merely to win the applause of the Emperor and his
illustrious sister, and to have the regent turn her back upon Ratisbon
just at this time, and without having informed his Majesty whose voice
had with reason aroused his delight, would be felt even by a gentler
woman as an injury.

Appenzelder could not help admitting this, and then dejectedly promised
Barbara to make amends as soon as possible for the wrong which the
regent, much against his will, had committed.

He was compelled to use all the power of persuasion at his command to
keep her in the boy choir, at least until the poisoned members could be
employed again, for she threatened seriously to withdraw her aid in
future.

Wolf, too, had a difficult position with the girl whom his persuasion had
induced to enter the choir. What Appenzelder ascribed to the devil
himself, he attributed merely to the fervour of her fiery artist
temperament. Yet her vehement outburst of wrath had startled him also,
and a doubt arose in his mind as to what matrimonial life might be with
a companion who, in spite of her youth, ventured to oppose elderly,
dignified men so irritably and sharply. But at the very next song which
had greeted him from her rosy lips this scruple was forgotten. With
sparkling eyes he assented to Gombert's protestation that, in her wrath,
she had resembled the goddess Nemesis, and looked more beautiful than
ever.

In spite of his gray hair, she seemed to have bewitched the great
musician, like so many other men, and this only enhanced her value in
Wolf's sight.

Urgently, nay, almost humbly, he at last entreated her to have patience,
for, if not at noon, his Majesty would surely desire to hear the boy
choir in the evening. Besides, he added, she must consider it a great
compliment that his Majesty had summoned the singers to the Glen Cross
the evening before at all, for on such days of fasting and commemoration
the Emperor was in the habit of devoting himself to silent reflection,
and shunned every amusement.

But honest Appenzelder, who frankly contradicted everything opposed to
the truth, would not let this statement pass. Nay, he interrupted Wolf
with the assurance that, on the contrary, the Emperor on such days
frequently relied upon solemn hymns to transport him into a fitting mood.
Besides, the anniversary was past, and if his Majesty did not desire to
hear them to-day, business, or the gout, or indigestion, or a thousand
other reasons might be the cause. They must simply submit to the
pleasure of royalty. They was entirely in accordance with custom that
his Majesty did not leave his apartments the day before. He never did so
on such anniversaries unless he or Gombert had something unusual to
offer.

Barbara bit her lips, and, while the May sun shone brilliantly into the
hall, exclaimed:

"So, since this time you could offer him nothing 'unusual,' Master, I
will beg you to grant me leave of absence." Then turning swiftly upon
her heel and calling to Wolf, by way of explanation, "The Schlumpergers
and others are going to Prufening to-day, and they invited me to the May
excursion too. It will be delightful, and I shall be glad if you'll come
with us."

The leader of the choir saw his error, and with earnest warmth entreated
her not to make his foolish old head suffer for it. "If, after all, his
Majesty should desire to hear the choir that noon, it would only be
because----"

Here he hesitated, and then reluctantly made the admission--"Because you
yourself, you fair one, who turns everybody's bead, are the 'unusual'
something which our sovereign lord would fain hear once more, if the gout
does not----"

Then Barbara laughed gaily in her clear, bell like tones, seized the
clumsy Goliath's long, pointed beard, and played all sorts of pranks upon
him with such joyous mirth that, when she at last released him, he ran
after her like a young lover to catch her; but she had nimbler feet, and
he was far enough behind when she called from the threshold:

"I won't let myself be caught, but since your pretty white goat's beard
bewitches me, I'll be obliging to-day."

She laughingly kissed her hand to him from the doorway as she spoke, and
it seemed as though her yielding was to be instantly rewarded, for before
she left the house Chamberlain de Praet appeared to summon the choir to
the Golden Cross at one o'clock.

Barbara's head was proudly erect as she crossed the square. Wolf
followed her, and, on reaching home, found her engaged in a little
dispute with her father.

The latter had been much disgusted with himself for his complaisance the
day before. Although Wolf had come to escort Barbara to the Emperor's
lodgings, he had accompanied his child to the Golden Cross, where she was
received by Maestro Appenzelder. Then, since he could only have heard
the singing under conditions which seemed unendurable to his pride, he
sullenly retired to drink his beer in the tap-room of the New Scales.

As, on account of the late hour, he found no other guest, he did not
remain there long, but returned to the Haidplatz to go home with Barbara.

This he considered his paternal duty, for already he saw in imagination
the counts and knights who, after the Emperor and the Queen had loaded
her with praise and honour, would wish to escort her home. Dainty pages
certainly would not be deprived of the favour of carrying her train and
lighting her way with torches. But he knew courtiers and these saucy
scions of the noblest houses, and hoped that her father's presence would
hold their insolence in check. Therefore he had endeavoured to give to
his outer man an appearance which would command respect, for he wore his
helmet, his coat of mail, and over it the red scarf which his dead wife
had embroidered with gold flowers and mountains-his coat-of-arms.

In spite of the indispensable cane in his right hand, he wore his long
battle sword, but he would have been wiser to leave it at home.

While pacing up and down before the Golden Cross in the silent night to
wait for his daughter, the halberdiers at the entrance noticed him.

What was the big man doing here at this late hour? How dared he venture
to wear a sword in the precincts of the Emperor's residence, contrary to
the law, and, moreover, a weapon of such unusual length and width, which
had not been carried for a long while?

After the guards were relieved they had suddenly surrounded him, and,
in spite of his vigorous resistance, would have taken him prisoner. But
fortunately the musicians, among them Barbara and Wolf, had just come out
into the street, and the latter had told the sergeant of the guards, whom
he knew, how mistaken he had been concerning the suspicions pedestrian,
and obtained his release. Thus the careful father's hopes had been
frustrated. But when he learned that his daughter had not seen the
Emperor at all, and had neither been seen nor spoken to by him, he gave
--notwithstanding his reverence for the sacred person of his mighty
commander--full expression to his indignation.

Fool that he had been to permit Barbara to present herself at court with
a troop of ordinary singing boys! Even on the following day he persisted
in the declaration that it was his duty, as a father and a nobleman, to
protect his daughter from further humiliations of this sort.

Yet when, on the day of fasting, the invitation to sing came, he
permitted Barbara to accept it, because it was the Emperor who summoned
her. He had called for her again, and on the way home learned that
neither his Majesty nor the regent had been among the listeners, and he
had gone to rest like a knight who has been hurled upon the sand.

The next morning, after mass, Barbara went to the rehearsal, and returned
in a very joyous mood with the tidings that the Emperor wished to hear
her about noon. But this time her father wanted to forbid her taking
part in the performance, and Wolf had not found it easy to make him
understand that this would insult and offend his Majesty.

The dispute was by no means ended when the little Maltese summoned her to
the New Scales. Wolf accompanied her only to the Haidplatz, for he had
been called to the Town Hall on business connected with his inheritance;
but Barbara learned in the room assigned to the musicians that the noon
performance had just been countermanded, and no special reason had been
given for the change.

The leader of the orchestra had been accustomed to submit to the
sovereign's arrangements as unresistingly as to the will of higher
powers, and Barbara also restrained herself.

True, wrath boiled and seethed in her breast, but before retiring she
only said briefly, with a seriousness which revealed the contempt
concealed beneath:

"You were quite right, Maestro Appenzelder. The Emperor considered my
voice nothing unusual, and nothing else is fit for the august ears of his
Majesty. Now I will go to the green woods."

The leader of the boy choir again did his best to detain her, for what
the noon denied the evening would bring, and Gombert aided him with
courteous flatteries; but Barbara listened only a short time, then,
interrupting both with the exclamation, "I force myself upon no one, not
even the highest!" she left the room, holding her head haughtily erect.

Appenzelder fixed his eyes helplessly upon the ground.

"I'd rather put a hoarse sailor or a croaking owl into my choir
henceforward than such a trilling fair one, who has more whims in her
head than hairs on it."

Then he went out to look for Wolf, for he, as well as Gombert, had
noticed that he possessed a certain degree of influence over Barbara.
What should he say to their Majesties if they ordered the choir for the
late meal and missed the voice about which the Oueen had said so many
complimentary things in the Emperor's name?

Wolf had told him that he was summoned to the Town Hall. The maestro
followed him, and when he learned there that he had gone to the syndic,
Dr. Hiltner, he inquired the way to this gentleman's house.

But the knight was no longer to be found there. For the third time the
busy magistrate was not at home, but he had been informed that the syndic
expected him that afternoon, as he wished to discuss a matter of
importance. Dr. Hiltner's wife knew what it was, but silence had been
enjoined upon her, and she was a woman who knew how to refrain from
speech.

She and her daughter Martina--who during Wolf's absence had grown to
maidenhood--were sincerely glad to see him; he had been the favourite
schoolmate of her adopted son, Erasmus Eckhart, and a frequent guest in
her household. Yet she only confirmed to the modest young man, who
shrank from asking her more minute questions, that the matter concerned
an offer whose acceptance promised to make him a prosperous man. She was
expecting her Erasmus home from Wittenberg that evening or early the next
morning, and to find Wolf here again would be a welcome boon to him.

What had the syndic in view? Evidently something good. Old Ursel should
help counsel him. The doctor liked her, and, in spite of the severe
illness, she had kept her clever brain.

He would take Barbara into his confidence, too, for what concerned him
concerned her also.

But when he turned from the Haidplatz into Red Cock Street he saw three
fine horses in front of the cantor house. A groom held their bridles.
The large chestnut belonged to the servant. The other two-a big-boned
bay and an unusually wellformed Andalusian gray, with a small head and
long sweeping tail--had ladies' saddles.

The sister of rich old Peter Schlumperger, who was paying court to
Barbara, had dismounted from the former. She wanted to persuade the
young girl, in her brother's name, to join the party to the wood
adjoining Prfifening Abbey.

At first she had opposed the marriage between the man of fifty and
Barbara; but when she saw that her brother's affection had lasted two
years, nay, had increased more and more, and afforded new joy to the
childless widower, she had made herself his ally.

She, too, was widowed and had a large fortune of her own. Her husband,
a member of the Kastenmayr family, had made her his heiress. Blithe
young Barbara, whose voice and beauty she knew how to value, could bring
new life and brightness into the great, far too silent house. The girl's
poverty was no disadvantage; she and her brother had long found it
difficult to know what to do with the vast wealth which, even in these
hard times, was constantly increasing, and the Blomberg family was as
aristocratic as their own.

The widow's effort to persuade the girl to ride had not been in vain, for
Wolf met Frau Kastenmayr on the stairs, and Barbara followed in a plain
dark riding habit, which had been her mother's.

So, in spite of Maestro Appenzelder, Miss Self-Will had really determined
to leave the city.

Her hasty information that the Emperor did not wish to hear the choir at
noon somewhat relieved his mind; but when, in answer to his no less hasty
question about the singing at the late meal, the answer came, "What is
that to me?" he perceived that the sensitiveness which yesterday had
almost led her to a similar step had now urged her to an act that might
cause Appenzelder great embarrassment, and rob her forever of the honour
of singing before their Majesties.

While the very portly Frau Kastenmayr went panting down the narrow
stairs, Wolf again stopped Barbara with the question why she so
carelessly trifled with what might be the best piece of good fortune in
her life, and shook his head doubtfully as, tossing hers higher, with
self-important pride she answered low enough not to be heard by the
widow, "Because a ride through the green woods in the month of May is
pleasanter than to sing into vacancy at midnight unheeded."

Here the high, somewhat shrill voice of Frau Kastenmayr, who felt jealous
in her brother's behalf at hearing Barbara whispering with the young
knight, interrupted them.

Her warning, "Where are you, my darling?" made the girl, with the skirt
of her riding habit thrown over her arm, follow her swiftly.

Wolf, offended and anxious, would have liked to make her feel his
displeasure, but could not bring himself to let her go unattended, and,
with some difficulty, first helped Frau Kastenmayr upon her strong steed,
then, with very mingled feelings, aided Barbara to mount the noble
Andalusian. While she placed her little foot in his hand to spring
thence with graceful agility into the saddle, the widow, with forced
courtesy, invited the young gentleman to accompany her and her brother to
Prufening. There would be a merry meal, which she herself had provided,
in the farmhouse on the abbey lands.

Without giving a positive answer, Wolf bowed, and his heart quivered as
Barbara, from her beautiful gray horse, waved her riding whip to him as a
queen might salute a vassal.

How erect she sat in her saddle! how slender and yet how well rounded her
figure was! What rapture it would be to possess her charms!

That she would accept the elderly Schlumperger for the sake of his money
was surely impossible. And yet! How could she, with laughing lips, cast
to the wind the rare favour of fortune which permitted her to display her
art to the Emperor, and so carelessly leave him, Wolf, who had built the
bridge to their Majesties, in the lurch, unless she had some special
purpose in view; and what could that be except the resolution to become
the mistress of one of the richest houses in Ratisbon? The words "My
darling," which Frau Kastenmayr had called to Barbara, again rang in his
ears, and when the two ladies and the groom had vanished, he returned in
a very thoughtful mood to the faithful old maid-servant.

Every one else who was in the street or at the window looked after
Barbara, and pointed out to others the beautiful Jungfrau Blomberg and
the proud security with which she governed the spirited gray. She had
become a good rider, first upon her father's horses, and then at the
Wollers in the country, and took risks which many a bold young noble
would not have imitated.

Her aged suitor's gray Andalusian was dearer than the man himself, whom
she regarded merely as a sheet-anchor which could be used if everything
else failed.

The thought of what might happen when, after these days of working for
her bread ended, still more terrible ones followed, had troubled her
again and again the day before. Now she no longer recollected these
miserable things. What a proud feeling it was to ride on horseback
through the sweet May air, in the green woods, as her own mistress, and
bid defiance to the ungrateful sovereign in the Golden Cross!

The frustration of the hope that her singing would make the Emperor
desire to hear her again and again had wounded her to the depths of her
soul and spoiled her night's rest. The annoyance of having vainly put
forth her best efforts to please him had become unendurable after the
fresh refusal which, as it were, set the seal upon her fears, and in the
defiant flight to the forest she seemed to have found the right antidote.
As she approached the monarch's residence, she felt glad and proud that
he, who could force half the world to obey him, could not rule her.

To attract his notice by another performance would have been the most
natural course, but Barbara had placed herself in a singular relation
toward the Emperor Charles. To her he was the man, not the Emperor, and
that he did not express a desire to hear her again seemed like an insult
which the man offered to the woman, the artist, who was ready to obey his
sign.

Her perverse spirit had rebelled against such lack of appreciation of her
most precious gifts, and filled her with rankling hatred against the
first person who had closed his heart to the victorious magic of her
voice.

When she refused Appenzelder her aid in case the Emperor Charles desired
to hear the choir that evening, and promised Frau Kastenmayr to accompany
her to Prufening, she had been like a rebellious child filled with the
desire to show the man who cared nothing for her that, against her will,
he could not hear even a single note from her lips.

They were to meet the other members of the party at St. Oswald's Church
on the Danube, so they were obliged to pass the Golden Cross.

This suited Barbara and, with triumphant selfconfidence, in which mingled
a slight shade of defiance, she looked up to the Emperor's windows. She
did not see him, it is true, but she made him a mute speech which ran:
"When, foolish sovereign, who did not even think it worth while to grant
me a single look, you hear the singing again to-night, and miss the voice
which, I know full well, penetrated your heart, you will learn its value,
and long for it as ardently as I desired your summons."

Here her cheeks glowed so hotly that Frau Kastenmayr noticed it, and with
maternal solicitude asked, from her heavy, steady bay horse:

"Is the gray too gay for you, my darling?"

CHAPTER XIII.

Shortly after sunset Appenzelder received the order to have the boy choir
sing before the Emperor.

During the noon hour, which the monarch had spent alone, thoughts so sad,
bordering upon melancholy, had visited him, although for several hours he
had been free from pain, that he relinquished his resentful intention of
showing his undutiful sister how little he cared for her surprise and how
slight was his desire to enjoy music.

In fact, he, too, regarded it as medicine, and hoped especially for
a favourable effect from the exquisite soprano voice in the motet "Tu
pulchra es."

He still had some things to look over with Granvelle, but the orchestra
and the boy choir must be ready by ten o'clock.

Would it not have been foolish to bear this intolerable, alarming mood
until the midnight meal? It must be dispelled, for he himself perceived
how groundless it was. The pain had passed away, the despatches
contained no bad news, and Dr. Mathys had permitted him to go out the
next day. When Adrian already had his hand on the door knob, he called
after him, "And Appenzelder must see that the exquisite new voice--he
knows--is heard."

Soon after, when Granvelle had just left him, the steward, Malfalconnet,
entered, and, in spite of the late hour--the Nuremberg clock on the
writing table had struck nine some time before--asked an audience for Sir
Wolf Hartschwert, one of her Highness the regent's household, to whom she
committed the most noiseless and the most noisy affairs, namely, the
secret correspondence and the music.

"The German?" asked Charles, and as the baron, with a low bow, assented,
the Emperor continued: "Then it is scarcely an intrigue, at any rate a
successful one, unless he is unlike the usual stamp. But no! I noticed
the man. There is something visionary about him, like most of the
Germans. But I have never seen him intoxicated."

"Although he is of knightly lineage, and, as I heard, at home in the
neighbourhood of the Main, where good wine matures," remarked
Malfalconnet, with another bow. "At this moment he looks more than
sober, rather as though some great fright had roused him from a carouse.
Poor knight!"

"Ay, poor knight!" the Emperor assented emphatically. "To serve my
sister of Hungary in one position may be difficult for a man who is no
sportsman, and now in two! God's death! These torments on earth will
shorten his stay in purgatory."

The Emperor Charles had spoken of his sister in a very different tone the
day before, but now she remained away from him and kept with her a friend
whom he greatly needed, so he repaid her for it.

Therefore, with a shrug of the shoulders expressive of regret, he added,
"However badly off we may be ourselves, there is always some one with
whom we would not change places."

"Were I, the humblest of the humble, lucky enough to be in your Majesty's
skin," cried the baron gaily, "I wouldn't either. But since I am only
poor Malfalconnet, I know of nobody--and I'm well acquainted with Sir
Wolf--who seems to me more enviable than your Majesty."

"Jest, or earnest?" asked the Emperor.

"Earnest, deep, well-founded earnest," replied the other with an upward
glance whose solemn devotion showed the sovereign that mischief was
concealed behind it. "Let your Majesty judge for yourself. He is a
knight of good family, and looks like a plain burgher. His name is Wolf
Hartschwert, and he is as gentle as a lamb and as pliant as a young
willow. He appears like the meek, whom our Lord calls blessed, and yet
he is one of the wisest of the wise, and, moreover, a master in his art.
Wherever he shows himself, delusion follows delusion, and every one
redounds to his advantage, for whoever took him for an insignificant man
must doff his hat when he utters his name. If a shrewd fellow supposed
that this sheep would not know A from B, he'll soon give him nuts to
crack which are far too hard for many a learned master of arts. Nobody
expects chivalric virtues and the accompanying expenditure from this
simple fellow; yet he practises them, and, when he once opens his hand,
people stare at him as they do at flying fish and the hen that lays a
golden egg. Appreciative surprise gazes at him, beseeching forgiveness,
wherever he is known, as surely as happy faces welcome your Majesty's
entry into any Netherland city. Fortune, lavish when she once departs
from her wonted niggardliness, guards this her favourite child from
disappointment and misconstruction."

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