Barbara Blomberg — Complete by Georg Ebers (phonics reading books .TXT) 📕

not help attributing his humiliating manner to it alone, for her love had always remained the same, and only yesterday, after she had sung before the Duke of Saxony, Appenzelder, who never flattered, had assured her that her voice had gained in power, her expression in depth, and she herself felt that it was so.

Music was still the firmest bond that united her to her lover. So long as her art remained faithful, he could not abandon her. This conviction was transformed into certainty when the final performance began, and the Ratisbon choir, under the direction of Damian Feys, commenced the mighty hymn with which the composer, Jean Courtois, had greeted the Emperor Charles in Cambray:

“Venite populi terrai”—“Come hither, ye nations of the earth”—this motet for four voices called imperiously to all mankind like a joyous summons.

“Ave Cesar, ave majestas sacra,” sounded in solemn, religious tones the greeting to the greatest of monarchs. It seemed to transport the listener to the summit of the cathedral, as the choir now called to the ruler that the earth was full of his renown. The Ratisbon singers and the able Feys did their best, and this mighty act of homage of all the nations of the earth by no means failed to produce its effect upon him to whom it was addressed.

While Barbara listened, deeply agitated, she did not avert her eyes from her lover’s face, which was brightly illumined by a pyramid of candles on each side of the two thrones.

Every trace of weariness, indifference, and discomfort had vanished from Charles’s features. His heart, like hers—she knew it—was now throbbing higher. If he had just been enduring pain, this singing must have driven it away or lessened it, and he had certainly felt gratefully what power dwells in the divine art.

This noble composition, Barbara realized it, would again draw her near her lover, and the confirmation of this hope was not delayed, for as soon as the last notes of the motet and the storm of applause that followed had died away, the Emperor, amid the renewed roar of the artillery, rose and looked around him—surely for her.

The good citizens of Ratisbon! No matter how much more bunting they had cut up in honour of the Saxon duke than of the Emperor, how bombastic were the verses composed and repeated in praise of Maurice, this paean of homage put all their efforts to shame. It suited only one, lauded a grandeur and dignity which stood firm as indestructible cliffs, and which no one here possessed save the Emperor Charles.

Who would have ventured to apply this motet to the brave and clever Saxon, high as he, too, towered above most of his peers? What did the nations of the earth know about him? How small was the world still that was full of his renown!

This singing had reminded both princes of Barbara, and they looked for her. The Emperor perceived her first, beckoned kindly to her, and, after conversing with her for a while so graciously that it aroused the envy of the other ladies in the tent, he said eagerly: “Not sung amiss for your Ratisbon, I should think. But how this superb composition was sung six years ago at Catnbray, under the direction of Courtois himself!—that, yes, that is one of the things never to be forgotten. Thirty-four singers, and what power, what precision, and, moreover, the great charm of novelty! I have certainly been permitted to hear many things——”

Here he paused; the Cardinal of Trent was approaching with the Bishop of Arras.

The younger Granvelle, with his father, had also been present at the performance of this motet of homage at Cambray, and respectfully confirmed his Majesty’s remark, speaking with special warmth of the fervour and delicacy with which Jean Courtois had conducted the choir.

The cardinal had no wish to detract from the merits of the Netherland maestro, but he called the Emperor’s attention to young Orlando di Lasso, the leader of the orchestra in the Lateran at Rome, who, in his opinion, was destined as a composer and conductor to cast into the shade all the musicians of his time. He was born in Hennegau. The goddess of Music continued to honour the Netherlands with her special favour.

During this conversation Barbara had stepped modestly aside. Charles glanced toward her several times to address her again, but when the Bishop of Arras whispered that, before the commencement of the festival, the cardinal had received despatches from the Council and from Rome, he motioned to both prelates to follow him, and, paying no further heed to Barbara—nay, without even vouchsafing her a farewell wave of the hand—conducted them to the rear of the tent.

Again the girl’s heart ached in her abandonment. Duke Maurice, too, had vanished. When he saw the Emperor address her he had left the tent.

Dancing had begun, and he was now accepting the invitation of the magistrate Ambrosius Ammann to inaugurate the young people’s pleasure as leader of the Polish dance.

For a time Barbara stood as if spellbound to the spot where her lover had so suddenly turned away from her.

She was again experiencing what Adrian had predicted—politics made Charles forget everything else, even love. How would it be when war actually came?

Now, after the Emperor had showed her that he still deemed her worthy of regard, she felt for the first time thoroughly neglected, and with difficulty restrained her tears. She would have liked to follow Charles, and at every peril whisper softly, so that he alone could hear, yet with all the sharpness of her resentment, that it was unchivalrous to leave her standing here like an outcast, and that she demanded to learn why she had forfeited his love.

The wild throbbing of her heart impeded her breathing, and, in the indignation of her soul, she longed to escape fresh humiliation and to leave the festival.

But again Baron Malfalconnet appeared as a preserver in the hour of need, and, with the profound submissiveness bordering upon mockery which he always showed her, asked why she had so speedily deprived his Majesty of the pleasure of her society. Barbara gave way to her wrath and, while vehemently forbidding the unseemly jibe, glanced with a bitter smile toward the Emperor, who, in conversation with the two dignitaries, seemed to have forgotten everything around him.

“The destiny of the world,” observed the baron, “can not be set to dance music. The domain of your obedient admirer, Malfalconnet, on the contrary, obeys solely the heart throbs in this loyal breast; and if you, fairest of women, will allow yourself to be satisfied with so small a realm of sovereignty, it is at your disposal, together with these tolerably agile feet, which still wait in vain for the well-merited imperial gout.”

The sharp refusal which this proposition received amused the baron instead of offending him, and passing into a more conversational tone, he proposed to her to leave this abode of ennui, where even the poor satyrs on the hangings were holding their big hands over their mouths to hide their yawns, and go with him to the dancing floor.

Barbara laid her hand on his arm and followed him to the pleasure ground under the lindens, where the pretty daughters of the Ratisbon noble families had just commenced a dance with the gentlemen belonging to their circle.