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.

He spent the anniversary of his father’s death in the monastery of Del

Abrojo.

There, or previously, he had read the codicil in which his imperial

father acknowledged the boy Geronimo as his son.

Barbara now desired to learn the contents of the codicil and, as Wolf

had told her yesterday how the boy’s fate had changed, he interrupted

his narrative and obeyed her wish.

As a widower, Charles confessed that he had had a son in Germany by an

unmarried woman. He had reason to wish that the boy should assume the

robe of a reformed order, but he must be neither forced nor persuaded to

do so. If he wished to remain in the world, he would settle upon him

a yearly income of from twenty to thirty thousand ducats, which was

to pass also to his heirs. Whatever mode of life he might choose, he

commanded his son Philip to honour him and treat him with due respect.

As on the day before, when Barbara had only learned in general terms

what the codicil contained, her soul to-day, while listening to the more

minute particulars, was filled with grateful joy.

Her sacrifice had not been vain. For years the fear of seeing her son

vanish in a monastery had darkened her days and nights, and Quijada and

Dona Magdalena had also probably dreaded that King Philip might confide

his half-brother to a reformed order, for the monarch had by no means

hastened to inform the anxious pair what he had determined.

It was not until the end of September that, upon the pretext of hunting,

he went to the monastery of San Pedro de la Espina, a league from

Villagarcia, and ordered Don Luis to seek him there with the boy. He was

to leave the latter wholly unembarrassed, and not even inform him that

the gentleman whom he would meet was the King.

His decision, he had added in the chilling manner characteristic of him,

would depend upon circumstances.

Quijada, with a throbbing heart, obeyed, but Geronimo had no suspicion

of what awaited him, and only wondered why his mother took so much

trouble about his dress, since they were merely going hunting. The tears

glittering in her eyes he attributed to the anxiety which she often

expressed when he rode with the hunters on the fiery young Andalusian

which his father had given him. He was then twelve years and a half old,

but might easily have been taken for fourteen.

“It was a splendid sight,” Wolf went on, “as the erect figure of the

dark Don Luis, on his powerful black stallion, galloped beside the fair,

handsome boy with his white skin and blue eyes, who managed his spirited

dun horse so firmly and joyously.

“Dona Magdalena and I followed them on our quiet bays. Her lips moved

constantly, and her right hand never stirred from the rosary at her belt

while we were riding along the woodland paths.

“To soothe her, I began to talk about the pieces of music which his

Majesty had brought from Brussels, but she did not hear me. So I

remained silent until the monastery glimmered through the trees. The

blood left her cheeks, for at the same moment the thought came to us

both that King Philip was taking him to the monks.

“But we had scarcely time to confide what we feared to each other ere

the blast of horns echoed from the forest.

“Then, to calm the anxious mother’s heart, I remarked, ‘His Majesty

would not have the horns sounded in that way if he were taking the pious

brothers a new companion,’ and Dona Magdalena’s wan cheeks again flushed

slightly.

“The forest is cleared in front of the monastery, but it surrounds on

all sides the open glade amid whose grass the meadow saffron was then

growing thickly.

“I can still see Geronimo as he swung himself from the saddle to gather

some of the flowers. His mother needed them as medicine for a poor woman

in the village.

“We stopped behind the last trees, where we had a good view of the

glade. Don Luis left the boy to himself for a time; but when the blast

of horns and the baying of the hounds sounded nearer, he ordered him, in

the commanding tone he used in teaching him to ride, to remount.

“Geronimo laughed, thrust the flowers hastily into his saddlebag, and

with a bold leap vaulted on his horse’s back.

“A few minutes after, the King rode out of the forest.

“He was mounted on a noble bay hunting charber, and wore a huntsman’s

dress.

“No rider can hold a slender figure more erect.

“His haughty head, with the fair, pointed beard, was carried slightly

thrown back, which gave him an especially arrogant appearance.

“When he saw Quijada, he raised his riding-whip with a significant

gesture to his lips. We, too, understood what it meant, and Don Luis

knew him far better than we.

“He greeted the King without the least constraint, as if he were merely

a friend of noble birth, then beckoned to Geronimo, and the introduction

was only the brief words, ‘My son’ and ‘The Count of Flanders.’

“The boy raised his little plumed hat with frank courtesy and, while

bowing in the saddle, forced his dun horse to approach the King

sideways. It was no easy matter, and seemed to please his Majesty, for

a smile of satisfaction flitted over his cold features, and we heard him

exclaim to Quijada, ‘A horseman, and, if the saints so will, a knight

well pleasing to Heaven.’

“What more he said to the boy we learned later. The words which by

the movement of his lips we saw that he added to the exclamation were,

‘Unless our noble young friend prefers to consecrate himself in humility

to the service of the highest of all Masters.’

“He had pointed to the monastery as he spoke. Geronimo did not delay his

reply, but, crossing himself, answered quickly:

“‘I wish to be a faithful servant of our Lord Jesus Christ, but only in

the world, fighting against his foes.’

“Philip nodded so eagerly that his stiff white ruff was pushed awry,

and then, with patronizing approval, added: ‘So every nobleman ought to

think. You, my young friend, saw a short time ago at the auto-da-fe in

Valladolid how a considerable number of Spanish gentlemen of the

noblest blood expiated at the stake the mortal sin of heresy. A severe

punishment, and a terrible end! Would you perhaps have preferred to see

his Majesty’s mercy grant them their lives?’

“‘On no account, my Lord Count,’ cried Geronimo eagerly. ‘There is no

mercy for the heretic.’

“His Majesty now summoned the two knights who attended him and, while

one held his horse, he dismounted.

“At a sign from Quijada, Geronimo now also sprang to the ground, and

gazed wonderingly at the stranger, whom, on account of his fair beard,

he supposed to be a Netherland noble; but Dona Magdalena could bear to

remain under the trees no longer, and I followed her to the edge of the

meadow. The King advanced toward the boy, and stood before him with so

proud and dignified a bearing that one might have supposed his short

figure had grown two heads taller.

“Geronimo must have felt that some very distinguished personage

confronted him, and that something great awaited him, for he

involuntarily raised his hat again. His wavy golden locks now fell

unconfined around his head, his cheeks glowed, and his large blue eyes

gazed questioningly and with deep perplexity into the stranger’s face

as he said slowly, with significant emphasis: ‘I am not the man whom you

suppose. Who, boy, do you think that I might be?’

“‘Geronimo turned pale; only one head could be lifted with so haughty a

majesty, and suddenly remembering the face which he had seen upon many

a coin, sure that he was right, he bent the knee with modest grace,

saying, “Our sovereign lord, his Majesty King Philip.”’

“‘I am he,’ was the reply. ‘But to you, dear boy, I am still more.’

“‘As he spoke he gave him his hand, and, when Geronimo rose, he said,

pointing to his breast: ‘Your place is here, my boy; for the Emperor

Charles, who is now enjoying the bliss of heaven, was your father as

well as mine, and you, lad, are my brother.’

“Then passing his arm around his shoulders, he drew him gently toward

him, lightly imprinting a kiss upon his brow and cheeks; but Geronimo,

deeply moved, pressed his fresh red lips to his royal brother’s right

hand. Yet he had scarcely raised his head again when he started, and in

an agitated tone asked, ‘And Don Luis--and my dear mother?’

“‘Continue to love and honour them,’ replied the King.--‘Explain the

rest to him, Don Luis. But keep what has happened here secret for the

present. I will present him myself to our people as my brother. He

received in holy baptism the name of John, which in Castilian is Juan.

Let him keep it.--Give me your hand again, Don Juan d’Austria.--[Don

John of Austria]--A proud name! Do it honour.’

“He turned away as he spoke, mounted with the aid of one of his knights,

waved his hand graciously to Quijada and, while his horse was already

moving, called to him, ‘My brother, Don Juan, will be addressed as your

Excellency.’

“He took no notice of Dona Magdalena, probably because she had appeared

here either without or against his orders, and thus offended one of

the forms of etiquette on which he placed so much value. So his Majesty

neither saw nor heard how the son of an Emperor and the brother of a

King rushed up to his foster-mother, threw himself into her outstretched

arms, and exclaimed with warm affection, ‘Mother! my dear, dear

mother!’”

Barbara had listened weeping to this description, but the last sentence

dried her tears and, like Frau Traut a short time ago, her friend

regretted that he had not exercised greater caution as he heard her,

still sobbing, but with an angry shrug of the shoulders, repeat the

exclamation which her son--ay, her son only--had poured forth from his

overflowing heart to another woman.

So Wolf did not tell her what he had witnessed in Villagarcia, when Don

Juan and Dona Magdalena had fallen into each other’s arms, and that

when he asked about his real mother the lady answered that she was an

unfortunate woman who must remain away from him, but for whom it would

be his duty to provide generously.

Directly after, on the second day of October, Wolf added, the King had

presented her son to the court as his Excellency, his brother Don John

of Austria!

He, Wolf, had set off for Brussels with the grand prior that very day,

and, as his ship sailed from Spain before any other, he had succeeded in

being the first to bring this joyful news to the Netherlands and to her.

When Wolf left Barbara, it seemed as though what had hitherto appeared a

bewildering, happy dream had now for the first time been confirmed. The

lofty goal she had striven to reach, and of which she had never lost

sight, was now gained; but a bitter drop of wormwood mingled with the

happiness that filled her grateful heart to overflowing. Another woman

had forced herself into her place and robbed her of the boy’s love,

which belonged to her and, after his father’s death, to her alone.

Every thought of the much-praised Dona Magdalena stirred her blood.

How cruel had been the anguish and fears which she had endured for this

child she alone could know; but the other enjoyed every pleasure that

the possession of so highly gifted a young creature could afford. She

could say to herself that, of all sins, the one farthest from her

nature was envy; but what she felt toward this stealer of love fatally

resembled sharp, gnawing ill will.

Yet the bright sense of happiness which pervaded her whole being

rendered it easy for her to thrust the image of the unloved woman far

into the shade, and the next morning became a glorious festival for her;

she used it to pay a visit to the Dubois couple, and when she told them

what she had heard from Wolf, and saw Frau Traut sob aloud in her joy

and Adrian wipe tears of grateful emotion from his aged eyes, her own

happiness was doubled by the others’ sympathy.

Barbara had anticipated Wolf, but while going home she met him on his

way to the Dubois house. He joined her, and still had many questions to

answer.

During the next few days her friend helped her compose a letter to

her son; but he was constantly obliged to impose moderation upon the

passionate vehemence of her feelings. She often yielded to his superior

prudence, only she would not fulfil his desire to address her boy as

“your Excellency.”

When she read the letter, she thought she had found the right course.

Barbara first introduced herself to John as his real mother. She had

loved and honoured his great father with all the strength of her soul,

and she might boast of having been clear to him also. By the Emperor

Charles’s command he, her beloved child, had been taken from her. She

had submitted with a bleeding heart and, to place him in the path of

fortune, had inflicted the deepest wounds upon her own soul. Now her

self-sacrifice was richly rewarded, and it would make her happier than

himself if she should learn that his own merit had led him to the height

of fame which she prayed that he might reach.

Then she congratulated him, and begged him not to forget her entirely

amid his grandeur. She was only a plain woman, but she, too, belonged

to an ancient knightly race, and therefore he need not be ashamed of his

mother’s blood.

Lastly, at Wolf’s desire, she requested her son to thank the lady who so

lovingly filled her place to him.

Her friend was to give this letter himself to Don John of Austria, and

he voluntarily promised to lead the high-minded boy to the belief that

his own mother had also been worthy of an Emperor’s love.

Lastly, Wolf promised to inform her of any important event in her son’s

life or his own. During the last hour of their meeting he admitted that

he was one of the few who felt satisfied with their lot. True, he

could not say that he had no wishes; but up to this hour he had desired

nothing more constantly and longingly than to hear her sing once more,

as in that never-to-be-forgotten May in the Ratisbon home. He might now

hope, sooner or later, to have this wish, too, fulfilled. These were

kind, cheering words, and with a grateful ebullition of feeling she

admitted that, after his glad tidings, she, too, again felt capable of

believing in a happy future.

So the friends from childhood bade each other farewell.

CHAPTER XVIII.

During the following days Barbara’s life path was illumined by the

reflection of the happiness bestowed by the wonderful change in the fate

of her child of sorrow, who now promised to become a giver of joy to

her.

Doubtless during the ensuing years many dark shadows fell upon her

existence and her heart; but when everything around and within was

gloomy, she only needed to think of the son whom she had given the

Emperor, and the constantly increasing brilliancy of his career, to

raise her head with fresh confidence. Yet the cloud obscuring her

happiness which she found it hardest to bear proceeded directly from

him.

He had probably mentioned her to his royal brother, and revenues had

been granted her far exceeding poor Wawerl’s dreams, and doubtless a

reflection of the admiration which her son earned fell upon her, and her

pride was greatly increased. Moreover, she could again devote

herself without fear to her ardently beloved art, for even honest old

Appenzelder declared that he liked to listen to her, though her voice

still lacked much of the overpowering magic of former days. She was in

a position, too, to gratify many a taste for whose satisfaction she had

often yearned, yet she could not attain a genuine and thorough new sense

of happiness.

The weeks which, a few years after her John’s recognition, she spent

with self-sacrificing devotion beside her husband’s couch of pain, which

was to become his deathbed, passed amid anxiety and grief, and when her

affectionate, careful nursing proved vain, and Pyramus died, deep and

sincere sorrow overpowered her. True, he had not succeeded in winning

her to return his tender love; but after he had closed his eyes she

realized for the first time what a wealth of goodness and fidelity was

buried with him and lost to her forever.

Her youngest boy, soon after his father’s death, was torn from her by

falling into a cistern, and she yielded herself to such passionate grief

for his loss that she thought she could never conquer it; but it was

soon soothed by the belief that, for the sake of this devout child,

whose training for a religious life had already commenced, Heaven had

resigned its claims upon John, and that the boy was dwelling in the

immediate presence of the Queen of Heaven.

Thus, ere she was aware of it, her burning anguish changed into a

cheerful remembrance. Earlier still--more than two years after Wolf’s

departure--tidings closely associated with the sorrow inflicted

through her John had saddened her. The ship which was to bear the loyal

companion of her youth to Spain was wrecked just before the end of the

voyage, and Wolf went down with it. Barbara learned the news only by

accident, and his death first made her realize with full distinctness

how dear he had been to her.

The letter which she had addressed to her son was lost with the man in

whom Fate had wrested from her the last friend who would have been able

and willing to show her John clearly and kindly a correct picture of his

mother’s real character.

For two years she had hoped that Wolf would complete her letter in his

own person, and tell her son how her voice and her beauty had won his

father’s heart. Quijada had known it; but if he spoke of her to his wife

and foster-son, it was scarcely in her favour--he cared little for music

and singing.

So the loss of this letter seemed to her, with reason, a severe

misfortune. What she now wrote to John could hardly exert much influence

upon him. Yet she did write, this time with the aid of Hannibal. But the

new letter, which began with thanks for the financial aid which the son

had conferred upon his mother through his royal brother, was distasteful

both to her pride and her maternal affection. Half prosaic, half far too

effusive, it gave a distorted idea of her real feelings, and she tore it

up before giving it to the messenger.

Yet she did not cease to hope that, in some favourable hour, the heart

of the idol of her soul would urge him to approach his mother; but year

after year elapsed without bringing her even the slightest token of

his remembrance, and this omission was the bitter drop that spoiled the

happiness which, after the death of her youngest boy, was clouded by no

outward event.

When at last she addressed herself to John in a third letter, which this

time she dictated to Hannibal as her heart prompted, she received an

answer, it is true, though not from him, but from Dona Magdalena.

In kind words this lady urged her not to write to “her”--Dona

Magdalena’s--son in future. She had taught him to think of the woman

who bore him with fitting respect, but it would be impossible for him

to maintain the relation with her. She must spare her the explanation of

the reasons which made this appear to be an obstacle to his career.

Don John would prove in the future, by his care for her prosperity and

comfort, that he did not forget her. She had no right, it is true, to

counsel her; but when she transported herself into the soul of the woman

who had enjoyed the love of the Emperor Charles, and on whom Heaven had

bestowed a son like John of Austria, she felt sure that this woman would

act wisely and promote her real welfare if she preferred communion with

her Saviour, in the quiet of a cloister, to the bustle of life amid

surroundings which certainly were far too humble for her.

Barbara felt wounded to the inmost depths of her being by this letter.

Had the officious adviser, who had certainly despatched the reply

without her son’s knowledge, been within her reach, she would have

showed her how little inclination she felt to be patronized by the

person who, after alienating the son’s heart from his mother, even

presumed to dictate to her to rob herself of her last claim upon his

regard.

True, in one respect she agreed with the writer of the letter.

Precisely because it appeared as if Heaven had accepted her sacrifice

and the grandeur for which she had made it seemed to be awaiting her

son, she ought to attempt nothing that might impede his climbing to the

height, and her open connection with him might easily have placed stones

in his path. His elevation depended upon King Philip, whose boundless

pride had gazed at her from his chilling face.

So she resolved to make no more advances to her child until the day

came--and a voice within told her that come it must--when he himself

longed for his own mother. Meanwhile she would be content with the joy

of watching his brilliant course from the distance.

The miracles which she had anticipated and prayed for in his behalf were

accomplished. First, she heard that Count Ribadavia’s splendid palace

would be prepared for her son, that the sons of noble families would be

assigned to attend him, and that a body-guard of Spaniards and Germans

and a train of his own were at his command.

Then she learned in what a remarkable manner Elizabeth of Valois, the

King’s new wife, favoured the lad of thirteen. At the taking of the oath

by which the Cortes recognised Don Carlos as the heir to the throne,

John had been summoned directly after the Infant as the first person

entitled to homage.

Next, she learned that he had entered the famous University of Alcala de

Henares.

And his classmates and friends? They were no less important personages

than Don Carlos himself and Alessandro Farnese, John’s nephew, the

son of that Ottavio at whose admission as Knight of the Golden Fleece

Barbara had made at Landshut the most difficult resolution of her life.

He was said to share everything with these distinguished companions,

and to be himself the handsomest and most attractive of the illustrious

trio. He was particularly inseparable from Alessandro, the son of the

woman now ruling as regent in Brussels, who was John’s sister.

What reply would he have made to this illustrious scion of one of the

most ancient and noble royal races if a letter from her had reached him,

and the duke’s son had asked, “Who is this Frau Barbara Blomberg?” or,

as she now signed herself, “Madame de Blomberg”?

The answer must have been: “My mother.”

Oh, no, no, never!

It would have been cruel to expect this from him; never would she place

her beloved child, her pride, her joy, in so embarrassing a position.

Besides, though she could only watch him from a distance, thanks to

his generosity or his brother’s, she could lead a pleasant life. To sun

herself in his glory, too, was sufficiently cheering, and must satisfy

her.

He spent three years at the University of Aleala, and nothing but

good news of him reached her. Then she received tidings which gave

her special joy, for one of the wishes she had formed in Landshut was

fulfilled. He had been made a Knight of the Golden Fleece, and

how becoming the jewel on the red ribbon must be to the youth of

one-and-twenty! How many of her acquaintances belonging to the partisans

of the King and Spain came to congratulate her upon it! Because John had

become Spanish, and risen in Spain to the position which she desired for

him, she wished to become so, and studied the Spanish language with the

zeal and industry of a young girl. She succeeded in gaining more and

more knowledge of it, and, finally, through intercourse with Spaniards,

in mastering it completely.

At that time the prospects for her party were certainly gloomy; the

heretical agitation and the boldness of the rebellious enthusiasts for

independence and liberty surpassed all bounds.

The King therefore sent the Duke of Alba to the Netherlands to restore

order, and, with the twenty thousand men he commanded, make the

insurgents feel the resistless power of offended majesty and the angered

Church.

Barbara and her friends greeted the stern duke as a noble champion of

the faith, who was resolved to do his utmost. The new bishoprics, which

by Granvelle’s advice had been established, the foreign soldiers, and

the Spanish Inquisition, which pursued the heretics with inexorable

harshness, had roused the populace to unprecedented turmoil, and induced

them to resist the leading nobles, who were indebted to the King

for great favours, to the intense wrath of these aristocrats and the

partisans of Spain.

Barbara, with all her party, had welcomed the new bishoprics as an

arrangement which promised many blessings, and the foreign troops seemed

to her necessary to maintain order in the rebellious Netherlands. The

cruelty of the Inquisition was only intended to enforce respect for the

edicts which the Emperor Charles, in his infallible wisdom, had

issued, and the hatred which the nobles, especially, displayed against

Granvelle, Barbara’s kind patron, the greatest statesman of his time and

the most loyal servant of his King, seemed to her worthy of the utmost

condemnation.

The scorn with which the rebels, after the compromise signed by the

highest nobles, had called themselves Geusen, or Beggars, and endangered

repose, would have been worthy of the severest punishment. What induced

these people to risk money and life for privileges which a wise policy

of the government--this was the firm conviction of those who shared

Barbara’s views--could not possibly grant, was incomprehensible to her,

and she watched the course of the rebels with increasing aversion. Did

they suppose their well-fed magistrates and solemn States-General, who

never looked beyond their own city and country, would govern them better

than the far-sighted wisdom of a Granvelle or the vast intellect of a

Viglius, which comprised all the knowledge of the world?

What they called their liberties were privileges which a sovereign

bestowed. Ought they to wonder if another monarch, whom they had deeply

angered, did not regard them as inviolable gifts of God? The quiet

comfort of former days had been clouded, nay, destroyed, by these

patriots. Peace could be restored only by the King’s silencing them. So

she wished the Spaniards a speedy success, and detested the efforts

of independent minds; above all, of William of Orange, their only too

clear-sighted, cautious, devoted leader, also skilled in the arts of

dissimulation, in whom she recognised the most dangerous foe of Spanish

sovereignty and the unity of the Church.

When, by the Duke of Alba’s orders, the Counts Egmont and Horn were

executed one June day in the market place of Brussels, opinions, even of

members of the Spanish party, were divided, especially as Count Egmont

was a Catholic, and had acted finally according to the views of the

government.

Barbara sincerely lamented his terrible end, for she had seen in him a

brilliant model for her John. In hours of depression, the sudden fall of

this favourite of the people seemed like an evil omen. But she would not

let these disquieting thoughts gain power over her, for she wished at

last to enjoy life and, as the mother of such a son, felt entitled to do

so.

She regarded this cruel deed of Alba as a false step at any rate, for,

though she kept so far aloof from the Netherland burghers and common

people, she perceived what deep indignation this measure aroused.

Meanwhile the Prince of Orange, the spirit and soul of this execrable

rebellion, had escaped the sentence of the court.

Nevertheless, she regarded Alba with great admiration, for he was a man

of ability, whom the Emperor Charles had held in high esteem. Besides,

after her husband’s death the haughty noble had been courteous enough to

assure her of his sympathy.

Moreover, a time was just approaching in which she withdrew too far from

this conflict to follow it with full attention, for her son’s first deed

of heroism became known in Brussels.

The King had appointed John to the command of the fleet, and sent him

against the pirates upon the African coast. He could now gather his

first laurels, and to do everything in her power for the success of his

arms, Barbara spent the greater portion of her time in church, praying

devoutly. In September he was greeted in Madrid as a conqueror, but

her joy was not unclouded; for the Infant Don Carlos had yielded up his

young life in July as a prisoner, and she believed him to be her John’s

best friend, and lamented his death because she thought that it would

grieve her hero son.

But this little cloud soon vanished, and how brilliantly the blue

sky arched above her the next year, when she learned that Don John of

Austria had received the honourable commission of crushing the rebellion

of the infidel Moriscoes in Andalusia! Here her royal son first proved

himself a glorious military hero, and his deeds at the siege of Galera

and before Seron filled her maternal heart with inexpressible pride. The

words which he shouted to his retreating men: “Do you call yourselves

Spaniards and not know what honour means? What have you to fear when I

am with you?” echoed in her ears like the most beautiful melody which

she had ever sting or heard.

Yet a dark shadow fell on these radiant joys also; her John’s friend and

foster-father, Don Luis Quijada, had been wounded in these battles, and

died from his injuries. Barbara felt what deep pain this would cause her

distant son, and expressed her sympathy to him in a letter.

But the greatest happiness was still in store for her and for him. On

the 7th of October, 1571, the young hero, now twenty-four years old, as

commander of the united fleets of Spain, Venice, and the Pope, gained

the greatest victory which any Castilian force had ever won over the

troops of the infidels.

Instead of the name received at his baptism, and the one which he owed

to his brother, that of Victor of Lepanto now adorned him. Not one

of all the generals in the world received honours even distantly

approaching those lavished upon him. And besides the leonine courage and

talent for command which he had displayed, his noble nature was praised

with ardent enthusiasm. How he had showed it in the distribution of the

booty to the widow of the Turkish high admiral Ali Pasha! This renowned

Moslem naval commander had fallen in the battle, and his two sons had

been delivered to Don John as prisoners. When the unfortunate mother

entreated him to release the boys for a large ransom, he restored one to

her love with the companions for whose liberty he had interceded, with

a letter containing the words, “It does not beseem me to keep your

presents, since my rank and birth require me to give, not to receive.”

These noble words were written by Barbara Blomberg’s son, the boy to

whom she gave birth, and who had now become just what her lofty soul

desired.

After the conquest of Cyprus, the Crescent had seriously threatened the

Cross in the Mediterranean, and it was Don John who had broken the power

of the Turks.

Alas, that her father could not have lived to witness this exploit of

his grandson! What a happy man the victory of Lepanto, gained by his

“Wawerl’s” son, would have made him! How the fearless old champion of

the faith would have rejoiced in this grandchild, his deeds, and nature!

And what honours were bestowed upon her John!

King Philip wrote to him, “Next to God, gratitude for what has been

accomplished is due to you.” A statue was erected to him in Messina. The

Pope had used the words of Scripture, “There was a man sent by God, and

his name was John.” Now, yes, now she was more than rewarded for the

sacrifice of Landshut; now the splendour and grandeur for which she had

longed and prayed was far, far exceeded.

This time it was gratitude, fervent gratitude, which detained her in

church. The child of her love, her suffering, her pride, was now happy,

must be happy.

When, two years later, Don John captured Tunis, the exploit could no

longer increase his renown.

At this time also happened many things which filled the heart of a woman

so closely connected with royalty sometimes with joy, sometimes with

anxiety.

In Paris, the night of St. Bartholomew, a year after her son had

chastised the Moslems at Lepanto, dealt the French heretics a deep,

almost incurable wound, and in the Netherlands there were not gallows

enough to hang the misguided fanatics.

Yet this rebellious nation did not cease to cause the King unspeakable

difficulties and orthodox Christians sorrow. On the sea the “Beggars”

conquered his Majesty’s war ships; Haarlem, it is true, had been forced

by the Spanish troops to surrender, but what terrible sacrifices the

siege had cost where women had taken part in the defence with the

courage of men!

And, in spite of everything, Alba’s harshness had been futile.

Then Philip recalled him and put in his place the gentle Don Luis de

Requesens, who had been governor in Milan. He would willingly have made

peace with the people bleeding from a thousand wounds, but how could he

concede the toleration of the heretical faith and the withdrawal of the

troops on which he relied? And how did the rebels show their gratitude

to him for his kindness and good will?

The Beggars destroyed his fleet, and, though the brother of William

of Orange had been defeated upon the Mooker-Heide, this by no means

disheartened the enraged nation, resolved upon extremes, and their

silent but wise and tireless leader.

In Leyden the obstinacy of the foes of the King and the Church showed

itself in a way to which even Barbara and her party could not deny a

certain degree of admiration. True, the nature of the country aided the

rebels like an ally. Mortal warriors could not contend against wind and

storm. But he who from without directed the defence here, who had issued

the order to break through the dikes, and then with shameful effrontery

had founded in the scarcely rescued city a university which was to

nurture the spirit of resistance in the minds of the young men, was

again the Prince of Orange; and who else than he, his shrewdness and

firmness, robbed Requesens of gratitude for his mildness and the success

of his honest labours?

But how much easier was the part of the leader of the enemy, who in

Brussels had escaped the fate of Egmont, than the King’s kindly disposed

governor! When Barbara chanced to hear the men of the people talking

with each other, and they spoke of “Father William,” they meant the

Prince of Orange; and with what abuse, both verbally and in handbills,

King Philip and the Spanish Government were loaded!

To Barbara, as well as to the members of her party, William of Orange,

whom she often heard called the “Antichrist” and “rebel chief,” was

an object of hatred. Now he frustrated the kind Requesens’s attempt at

mediation, and it was also his fault that two provinces had publicly

revolted from the Holy Church. The Protestant worship of God was now

exercised as freely there as in Ratisbon. Like William of Orange, most

of the citizens professed the doctrine of Calvin, but there was no lack

of Lutherans, and the clergyman whose sermons attracted the largest

congregations was Erasmus Eckhart, Barbara’s old acquaintance, Dr.

Hiltner’s foster-son, who during the Emperor Charles’s reign had come to

the Netherlands as an army chaplain, and, amid great perils, was said to

have lured thousands from the Catholic Church. Deeply as her sentiments

rebelled, here, too, Barbara had become his preserver; for when the

Bloody Council had sentenced him to the gallows, she had succeeded, with

great difficulty, through her manifold relations to the heads of the

Spanish party, in obtaining his pardon. A grateful letter from Frau

Sabina Hiltner had abundantly repaid her for these exertions.

The boldness with which William of Orange, who was himself the most

dangerous heretic and rebel, protested that he was willing to grant

every one full religious liberty, had no desire to injure the Catholic

Church in any way, and was even ready to acknowledge the supremacy of

the King, could not fail to enrage every pious Catholic and faithful

subject of King Philip.

To spoil a Requesens’s game was no difficult task for the man who,

though by no means as harmless as the dove, was certainly as wise as the

serpent; but that the Duke of Alba, the tried, inflexible commander, had

been obliged to yield and retire vanquished before the little, merry,

industrious, thoroughly peaceful nation which intrusted itself to the

leadership of William of Orange, had been too much for her and, when it

happened, seemed like a miracle.

What spirits were aiding the Prince of Orange to resist the King and the

power of the Church so successfully? He was in league with hell, her old

confessor said, and there were rumours that his Majesty was trying to

have the abominable mischief-maker secretly put out of the world. But

this would have been unworthy of a King, and Barbara would not believe

it.

In the northern provinces the Spanish power was only a shadow, but in

the southern ones also hatred of the Spaniards was already bursting into

flames, and Requesens was too weak to extinguish them.

The King and Barbara’s political friends perceived that Alba’s pitiless,

murderous severity had injured the cause of the crown and the Church far

more than it had benefited them. Personally, he had treated her on

the whole kindly, but he had inflicted two offences which were hard to

conquer. In the first place, he urged her to leave Brussels and settle

in Mons; and, secondly, he had refused to receive her Conrad, who had

grown up into a steady, good-looking, but in no respect remarkable young

man, in one of his regiments, with the prospect of promotion to the rank

of officer.

In both cases she had not remained quiet and, at the second audience

which the duke gave her, her hot blood, though it had grown so much

cooler, played her a trick, and she became involved in a vehement

argument with him. In the course of this he had been compelled to

be frank, and she now knew that Alba had persuaded her to change her

residence at the King’s desire, and why it was done.

She afterward learned from acquaintances that the duke had said one was

apt to be the loser in a dispute with her; yet she had yielded,

though solely and entirely to benefit her John, but she could not help

confessing to herself that her residence in the capital could not be

agreeable to him. The highest Spanish officials and military commanders

lived there, as well as the ambassadors of foreign powers, and it was

not desirable to remind them of the maternal descent of the general who

now belonged to the King’s family.

The case was somewhat similar, as Alba himself had confessed to her,

with regard to her son Conrad’s promotion to the rank of an officer;

for if he attained that position he might, as the brother of Don John of

Austria, make pretensions which threatened to place the hero of Lepanto

in a false, nay, perhaps unpleasant position. This, too, she did not

desire. But in removing from Brussels she had possibly rendered Don John

a greater service than she admitted to herself, for, since her son’s

brilliant successes had made her happy and her external circumstances

had permitted it, she had emerged from the miserable seclusion of former

years.

Her dress, too, she now suited to the position which she arrogated to

herself. But in doing so she had become a personage who could scarcely

be overlooked, and she rarely failed to be present on the very occasions

which brought together the most aristocratic Spanish society in

Brussels.

So, after a fresh dispute with Alba, in which the victor on many a

battlefield was forced to yield, she had obtained his consent to retire

to Ghent instead of Mons.

True, the duke would have preferred to induce her to go to Spain, and

tried to persuade her to do so by the assurance that the King himself

desired to receive her there.

But she had been warned.

Through Hannibal Melas and other members of her own party she had

learned that Philip intended, if she came to Spain, to remove her from

the eyes of the world by placing her in a convent, and never had she

felt less inclination to take the veil.

Her departure from Brussels had done Alba and his functionaries a

service, for she had constantly forced herself into the government

building to obtain news of her son.

The great and opulent city of Ghent, the birthplace of the Emperor

Charles, of which he had once said to Francis I, the King of France,

that Paris would go into his glove (Gant), had been chosen by Barbara

for several reasons. The principal one was that she would find there

several old friends of former days, one of whom, her singing-master

Feys, had promised to accept her voice and enable her to serve her art

again with full pleasure.

The other was Hannibal Melas, who before Granvelle’s fall had been

transferred there as one of the higher officials of the government.

She also entered into relations with other heads of the Spanish party,

and thus found in Ghent what she sought. The pension allowed her enabled

her to hire a pretty house, and to furnish it with a certain degree of

splendour. A companion, for whom she selected an elderly unmarried lady

who belonged to an impoverished noble family, accompanied her in her

walks; a major-domo governed the four men-servants and the maids of

the household; Frau Lamperi retained her position as lady’s maid; the

steward and cook attended to the kitchen and the cellar; and two pages,

with a pretty one-horse carriage, lent an air of elegance to her style

of living.

For the religious service, which was directed by her own chaplain,

she had had a chapel fitted up in the house, according to the Ratisbon

fashion. The poor were never turned from her door without alms, and

where she encountered great want she often relieved it with a generosity

far beyond her means. Under the instruction of Maestro Feys, she eagerly

devoted herself to new exercises in singing. Doubtless she realized that

time and the long period of hoarseness had seriously injured her voice,

but even now she could compare with the best singers in the city.

Thus Barbara saw her youthful dreams of fortune realized--nay,

surpassed--and in the consciousness of liberty which she now enjoyed,

elevated by the success gained by the person she loved best, she again

followed her lover’s motto. With the impelling “More, farther” before

her eyes, she took care that she did not lack the admiration for which

she had never ceased to long, and to which, in better days, she had

possessed so well-founded a claim.

Now a lavish and gracious hospitality, as well as her relationship to

the greatest and most popular hero of his time, must give her what she

had formerly obtained through her art; for she rarely sang in large

companies, and when she did so, no matter how loudly her hearers

expressed their delight, she could not regain the old confident security

that she was justly entitled to it. But she could believe all the more

firmly that the acknowledgments of pleasure which she reaped from her

little evening parties were sincere. They even gained a certain degree

of celebrity, for the kitchen in her house was admirably managed, and

whatever came from it found approval even in the home of the finest

culinary achievements. But it was especially the freedom--though not the

slightest indecorum was permitted--with which people met at “Madame de

Blomberg’s,” as she now styled herself, that lent her house so great an

attraction, and finally added the more aristocratic members of her party

to the number of her guests.

The very different elements assembled in her home were united by

Barbara’s unaffected vivacity and frank, enthusiastic temperament,

receptive to the veriest trifle. These evening entertainments rarely

lacked music; but she had learned to retire into the background, and

when there were talented artists among her guests she gave them the

precedence. The way in which she understood how to discover and bring

out the best qualities of every visitor rendered her a very agreeable

hostess.

Maestro Feys made her acquainted with his professional friends in Ghent,

and her opinion of music was soon highly valued among them. Where women

choirs were being trained, she was asked to join them, and often took

a part which seemed to the others too difficult. Thus Barbara was heard

and known in larger circles, and she had the pleasure of hearing her

admirable training and excellent method of delivery praised by the

director of the choir of the Cathedral of Saint Bavon, one of the

greatest musicians in the Netherlands. But it afforded her special

gratification when a choir of Catholic women chose her for their leader.

She devoted a large portion of her time and strength to it, and felt

honoured and elevated by its progress and admirable performances.

Although nearly fifty, she was still a very fine-looking woman. The few

silver threads which now mingled in her hair were skilfully concealed by

Lamperi’s art, and few ladies in Ghent were more tastefully and richly

apparelled.

Among the guests who thronged to her house there was no lack of elderly

gentlemen who would gladly have married the vivacious, unusual woman,

who was so nearly connected with the royal family, and lived in such

luxurious style.

Never had she had more suitors than at this time; but she had learned

the meaning of a loveless marriage, and her heart still belonged to the

one man to whom, notwithstanding the deep wounds he had inflicted, she

owed a brief but peerlessly sublime happiness.

She could not even have bestowed upon her husband the alms of a sincere

interest, for, in spite of the increasing number of social and musical

engagements which filled her life, one thought alone occupied the depths

of her soul--her John, his renown, grandeur, and honour.

Her son Conrad had no cause to complain of lack of affection from his

mother, but the victor of Lepanto was to her the all-animating sun, the

former only a friendly little star. Besides, she rarely saw him now, as

he was studying in Lowen.

As she had modelled her housekeeping after that of the Castilian nobles,

and her guests almost exclusively belonged to the royal party, she

also sought Spanish houses or those of the city magistrates who were

partisans of the King.

News of her son would be most fully supplied there, and many an officer

whom she met had served under her John, and willingly told the

mother what he admired and had learned from him. The young Duke of

Ferdinandina, a Spanish colonel, who had studied with John in Alcala,

and then fought by his side at the conquest of Tunis, stirred her heart

most deeply by his enthusiastic admiration for the comrade who was his

superior in every respect.

All the pictures of Don John, the young officer who had shared his tent

declared, gave a very faint idea of his wonderful beauty and bewitching

chivalrous grace. Not only women’s hearts rushed to him; his frank,

lovable nature also won men. As a rider in the tournament, in games of

ball and quarter staff, he had no peer; for his magnificently formed

body was like steel, and he himself had seen Don John share in playing

racket for six hours in succession with the utmost eagerness, and then

show no more fatigue than a fish does in water. But he was also sure of

success where proof of intellect must be given. He did not understand

where Don John had found time to learn to speak French, German, and

Italian. Moreover, he was thoroughly the great noble. On the pilgrimage

which he made to Loretto he had distributed more than ten thousand

ducats among the poor. The piety and charity which distinguished him--he

had told him so himself--owed to the lady who reared him, the widow of

the never-to-be-forgotten Don Luis Quijada. His eye filled with tears

when he spoke of her. But even she, Barbara, could not love him more

tenderly or faithfully than this admirable woman. Up to the day she

insisted upon supplying his body linen. The finest linen spun and woven

in Villagarcia was used for the purpose, and the sewing was done by

her own skilful hands. Nothing of importance befel him that he did not

discuss with Tia in long letters.--[“Tia,” the Spanish word for aunt.]

Barbara had listened to the young Spaniard with joyous emotion until, at

the last communication, her heart contracted again.

How much that by right was hers this worm snatched, as it were, from

her lips! What delight it would also have given her to provide her son’s

linen, and how much finer was the Flanders material than that made at

Villagarcia! how much more artistically wrought were Mechlin and Brusse

laces than those of Valladolid or Barcelona!

And the letters!

How many Dona Magdalena probably possessed! But she had not yet beheld a

single pen stroke from her son’s hand.

Yet she thanked the enthusiastic young panegyrist for his news, and the

emotion of displeasure which for a short time destroyed her joy melted

like mist before the sun when he closed with the assurance that, no

matter how much he thought and pondered, he could find neither spot nor

stain the brilliantly pure character of her son, irradiated by nobility

of nature, the favour of fortune, and renown.

The already vivid sense of happiness which filled her was strongly

enhanced by this description of the personality of her child and, in a

period which saw so many anxious and troubled faces in the Netherlands,

a sunny radiance brightened hers.

She felt rejuvenated, and the acquaintances and friends who declared

that no one would suppose her to be much older than her famous son,

whose age was known to the whole world, were not guilty of undue

exaggeration.

Heaven, she thought, would pour its favour upon her too lavishly if the

report that Don John was to be appointed Governor of the Netherlands

should be verified.

It was not in Barbara’s nature to shut such a wealth of joy into her own

heart, and never had her house been more frequently opened to guests,

never had her little entertainments been more brilliant, never since the

time of her recovery had the music of her voice been more beautiful than

in the days which followed the sudden death of the governor, Requesens.

Meanwhile she had scarcely noticed how high the longing for liberty was

surging in the Netherland nation, and with how fierce a glow hatred of

the Spanish tyrants was consuming the hearts of the people.

But even Barbara was roused from her ecstasy of happiness when she heard

of the atrocities that threatened the provinces.

What did it avail that the King meanwhile left the government to the

Council of State in Brussels? Even furious foes of Spain desired to see

a power which could be relied upon at the head of the community, even

though it were a tool of the abhorred King. The danger was so terrible

that it could not fail to alarm and summon to the common defence every

individual, no matter to what party he might belong; for the unpaid

Spanish regiments, with unbridled violence, rioting and seeking booty,

capable of every crime, every shameful deed, obedient only to their own

savage impulses, were already entering Brabant.

Now many a Spanish partisan also hoped for deliverance from the Prince

of Orange, but he took advantage of the favour of circumstances in

behalf of the great cause of liberty. The “Spanish” in Ghent heard with

terror that all the heads of the royalist party who were at the helm of

government had been captured, that province after province had revolted,

and would no longer bow to the despot. Philip of Croy, Duke of Aerschot,

had been appointed military governor of Brabant.

The inhabitants of Ghent now saw the States-General meet within the

walls of their city, in order, as every other support failed, to appeal

for aid to foreign powers, and entreat “Father William,” who could do

everything, to guard the country from the rebellious soldiery. Even

those who favoured Spain now relied upon his never-failing shrewdness

and energy until the King sent the right man.

Then the rumour that King Philip would send his brother Don John of

Austria, that, as his regent, he might reconcile the contending parties,

strengthened into authentic news, and not only the Spanish partisans

hailed it with joyous hope, for the reputation of military ability, as

well as of a noble nature, preceded the victor of Lepanto.

Barbara received these tidings through the distinguished City Councillor

Rassingham, who invited her for the first time to a meeting of the

Spanish party in his magnificent home--an honour bestowed, in addition

to herself, upon only a few women belonging to the highest social

circles, and which she probably owed to the summons to Don John. The

members of the States-General who favoured the King were also to be

present at this assembly, and a banquet would follow the political

discussions. This invitation promised to lend fresh distinction to her

social position, and open a sphere of activity which suited her taste.

The King’s cause was hers, and to be permitted to work for it gained a

special charm by her son’s appointment to be governor of the country,

which filled her with mingled anxiety and joy. If he were regent, every

service which she rendered the party would benefit him personally.

Yet it was not perfectly easy for her to accept Rassingham’s invitation.

Nothing could be more desirable and flattering than to obtain admittance

to this house, from which all foreign and doubtful elements were

excluded with special care, but she would be obliged to remain there

until late at night, and this was difficult to reconcile with certain

duties she had undertaken.

Her old music teacher, Feys, to whom she was so much indebted, had been

attacked by slow fever, and she had received him in her house five days

ago, and provided with loving devotion for his nursing. The bachelor of

seventy had been so ill cared for in his lonely, uncomfortable home that

her kind heart had urged her to take charge of him.

She had left him only a few hours since he had been under her roof, and

if the banquet at the Rassinghams, after the deliberations, lasted until

a very late hour, she would, for the sake of her invalid guest, great as

was the sacrifice, attend only the former.

Yet she was pleased at the thought of sharing this festal assembly, and

she, her companion, and Lamperi all went into ecstasies over the dress

she intended to wear, which had just arrived from Brussels.

Maestro Feys passed a restless night, and Barbara watched beside his

couch for hours. In the morning she allowed herself a little sleep, but

she was obliged at noon to dress for the assembly, which was to begin

before sunset.

She had just sat down to have her hair arranged, which occupied a long

time, when one of the pages handed her a letter brought by a mounted

courier.

She opened it curiously, and while reading it her cheeks paled and

flushed as in the days of her youth. Then it dropped into her lap,

and for a moment she remained motionless, with closed eyes, as though

stupefied.

Then, rising quickly, she again read the violet-scented missive, written

on the finest parchment.

“Your son,” ran the brief contents--“your son, who has so long been

separated from his mother, at last desires to look into her eyes. If the

woman who gave him birth wishes to make him feel new and deep gratitude,

let her hasten at once to Luxemburg, where he has been for several hours

in the deepest privacy. The weal and woe of his life are at stake.”

The letter, written in the German language, was signed “John of

Austria.”

Panting for breath, Barbara gazed a long time into vacancy. Then,

suddenly drawing herself up proudly, she exclaimed to Lamperi: “I’ll

dress my hair myself. Yesterday Herr De la Porta offered me his

travelling carriage. The major-domo must go to him at once and say that

Madame de Blomberg asks the loan of the vehicle. Let the page Diego

order post and courier horses at the same time. The carriage must be

ready in an hour.”

“But, Madame,” cried the maid, raising her hands in alarm and

admonition, “the Rassinghams are expecting you. The honour! Every one

who is well disposed in the States-General will be there. Who knows what

the party has in store for you? And then the banquet! What may there not

be to hear!”

“No matter,” replied Barbara. “The chaplain--I’ll speak to him-must send

the refusal. No summons from Heaven could be more powerful than the call

that takes me away. Bestir yourself! There is not an instant to lose.”

Frau Lamperi retired with drooping head. But when she had executed her

mistress’s orders and returned, Barbara laid her hand upon her shoulder,

whispering: “You can keep silence. I am going to Luxemburg. He who calls

me is one whom you saw enter the world, the hero of Lepanto. He wants

his mother. At last! at last! And I--”

Here tears stifled her voice, and obeying the desire to pour out to

another the overflowing gratitude and love which had taken possession of

her soul, she threw herself upon the gray-haired attendant’s breast,

and amid her weeping exclaimed: “I shall see him with these eyes, I can

clasp his hand, I shall hear his voice--that voice--His first cry--A

thousand times, waking and sleeping, I have fancied I heard it again. Do

you remember how they took him from me, Lamperi?

“To think that I survived it! But now--now If that voice lured me to the

deepest abyss and called me away from paradise, I would go!”

The maid’s old eyes also overflowed, and when Barbara read her son’s

letter aloud, she cried: “Of course there can be no delay, even if,

instead of the Rassinghams, King Philip himself should send for you. And

I--may I go with you? Oh, Madame, you do not know what a sweet little

angel he was from his very birth! We were not allowed to show him to

you. And it was wise, for, had you seen him, it would have broken your

poor mother heart to give him up.”

She sobbed aloud as she spoke. Barbara permitted her to accompany her,

though she had intended to take her companion, and would have preferred

to travel with the woman of noble birth.

Besides, she could have confided the care of her sick guest to Lamperi

more confidently than to the other. But the faithful old soul’s wish

to see the boy whose entrance into the world she had been permitted to

greet was too justifiable for her to be able to refuse it.

How much Barbara had to do before her departure! Most of the time was

consumed by the suffering maestro and the arrangements which she had

to make for him. She did not leave his bedside until the arrival of the

sister who was to assist her companion in nursing her old friend until

her return. She certainly would not be absent long; the important

things John had to say might probably require great haste, while, on

the contrary, whatever needed time for execution could be comfortably

despatched during his stay in the Netherlands. So she assured Feys, who

regarded her as his good angel and felt her departure painfully,

that she would soon be with him again, and then gave the order to ask

Hannibal Melas, in her name, to pay frequent visits to the sick maestro.

It was very hard for her to leave him and neglect the duties which she

had undertaken, but in the presence of the summons addressed to her

every other consideration must be silent.

When Barbara returned to her own apartments Lamperi was still busied

with the packing.

Several dresses--first of all the new Brussels gown and its belongings,

even the pomegranate blossoms which the garden city of Ghent

had supplied as something rare in November for her mistress’s

adornment--were placed carefully in the largest trunk, while Barbara,

overpowered by inexpressible restlessness, paced the room with hasty

steps from side to side.

Only when one or another article was taken from a casket or box did

she pause in her walk. Among the things selected was the pearl necklace

which Charles had given her, and the only note her royal lover had ever

written, which ran, “This evening, quia amore langueo.” This she laid

with her own hand among the laces and pomegranate blossoms, for this

cry of longing might teach her son what she had once been to his father.

When John had seen her and felt how clear he was to her, he must become

aware that he had another mother besides the Spanish lady whom he called

“Tia,” and who made his underclothing; then he could no more forget her

than that other woman.

Lastly, she summoned the major-domo and told him what he must do during

her absence, which she thought would not exceed a week at the utmost.

The guests invited for Wednesday must be notified; the women’s choir

must be requested to excuse her non-appearance; Sir Jasper Gordon, her

most faithful admirer, an elderly Englishman, must learn that she had

gone away; but, above all, writing tablet in hand, she directed him

how to provide for her poor, what assistance every individual should

receive, or the sums of money and wood which were to be sent to other

houses to provide for the coming winter. She also placed money at the

majordomo’s disposal for any very needy persons who might apply for help

while she was out of reach.

Before the November sun had set she entered the La Porta travelling

carriage. The chaplain, whom she referred to the major-domo for any

matters connected with the poor, gave his blessing to the departing

traveller, whose cheerful vivacity, after so many severe trials, he

admired, and whose “golden heart,” as he expressed it, had made her dear

to him. The servants gathered at the door of the house, bowing silently,

and her “Farewell, till we meet again!” fell from her lips with joyous

confidence.

While on the way she reflected, for the first time, what John could

desire of her for the “weal and woe of his life.” It was impossible to

guess, yet whatever it might be she would not fail him.

But what could it be’

Neither during the long night journey nor by the light of day did she

find a satisfactory answer. True, she had not thought solely of her

son’s entreaty. Her whole former life passed before her.

How much she had sinned and erred! But all that she had done for the man

to whom the posthorses were swiftly bearing her seemed to her free from

reproach and blameless. Every act and feeling which he had received from

her had been the best of which she was capable.

Not a day, scarcely an hour, had she forgotten him; for his sake she had

endured great anguish willingly, and, in spite of his mute reserve--she

could say so to herself--without any bitter feeling. How she had

suffered in parting from her child she alone knew. Fate had raised her

son to the summit of earthly grandeur and saved him from every clanger.

Providence had adorned him with its choicest gifts. When she thought of

the last account of him from the Duke of Ferdinandina, it seemed to her

as if his life had hitherto resembled a triumphal procession, a walk

through blooming gardens.

What could he mean by the “woe” after the “weal”?

John was to her the embodied fulfilment of the most ardent prayers. The

blessings she had besought for him, and for which she had placed her own

heart on the rack, had become his-glory and splendour, fame and honour.

She had not been able to give them to him, and undoubtedly he owed much

to his own powers and to the favour of his royal brother, but Barbara

was firmly convinced that her prayers had raised him to his present

grandeur.

What more could now be given to him? Everything the human heart desires

was already his. His happiness was complete, and during recent years

this, too, had cheered her heart and restored her lost capacity for

the enjoyment of life. She had been carried to the very verge of

recklessness whenever bitter grief had oppressed her heart.

Her greatest sorrow had been that she was not permitted to see and

embrace him, and the knowledge that another filled the place in his

heart which belonged to her; but lesser troubles had also gnawed at her

soul.

It had been especially hard to bear that, as the object of the greatest

Emperor’s love and the mother of his son, she had so long felt that

she was reluctantly tolerated, and not really recognised in the circles

which should have been hers also. Moreover, the consciousness of

exercising an art over which she had once attained a mastery, yet never

being able to shake off the painful doubt whether the applause that

greeted her performance was genuine, spoiled many a pleasant hour.

Still, all these things had probably been only the tribute which she was

compelled to pay for the proud joy of being the mother of such a son.

Now she at last felt safe from these malicious little attacks. She had

gained a good social position; she was not only valued as a singer, but

always sought wherever the women of Ghent were earnestly pursuing music

and singing. The invitation to the Rassinghams flung wide the doors

which had formerly been closed against her, and she might be sure of not

being deemed the least important among the ladies of her party to whose

hearts the cause of King and Church was dear.

When she returned to Ghent, even if Don John had not been appointed

governor, she might even have ventured to make her house the rendezvous

of the heads of the royalist party.

But now that her son entered the Netherlands as the leader, the

representative of the sovereign, to reign in Philip’s name, everything

she could wish was attained, and his father’s “More, farther,” had lost

all meaning for her.

She could meet her happy son as a happy mother; she said this to herself

with a long breath. These thoughts had animated her restless half

slumber during the nocturnal drive, and she still dwelt upon them all

the following day.

Toward evening they reached Luxemburg. At the gate, where every carriage

was stopped, the guards asked her name.

At the reply the inspector of taxes bowed profoundly, and signed to the

Spanish officer behind him.

He was waiting for her, by the command of the captain-general, who

longed to see her, and with the utmost courtesy undertook the office of

guide.

Then the carriage rolled on again, and turned into the magnificent park

of a palace, which belonged to the royal governor, Prince Peter Ernst

von Mansfeld.

A gentleman dressed in black, whose bright eyes revealed an active mind,

while the expression of his well-formed features inspired confidence,

Don John’s private secretary, Escovedo, of whose shrewdness and fidelity

Barbara had often heard, ushered her into the apartments assigned to

her.

In two hours, he said, the captain-general would be happy to receive

her. He first wished her to rest completely after the fatiguing journey.

Barbara dismissed, without making use of their services, the pages whom

he placed at her disposal. The more than luxurious meal which was served

soon afterward she scarcely touched; the impetuous throbbing of her

heart choked her breathing so that she could scarcely speak to Lamperi.

With eager zeal the maid tried to induce her to put on the fresh and

extremely tasteful Brussels gala robe. The candlesticks, with the

dozens of candles, the elegant silver dishes, the whole manner of the

reception, led her to make the suggestion. But Barbara had scarcely

noticed these magnificent things.

Her every thought and feeling centred upon the son whom she was now

actually to see with her own eyes, whose hand she would touch, whose

voice she would hear.

The splendid costume did not suit such a meeting after a long

separation, so solemn a festal hour of the heart.

A heavy black silk which she had brought was more appropriate for this

occasion. Only she allowed the pomegranate blossoms, which had remained

perfectly fresh, to be fastened on her breast, that her dress might not

look like mourning. While Lamperi was putting the last touches to her

toilet, a priest came for her, as Escovedo had arranged, exactly two

hours after her arrival. This was Father Dorante, Don John’s confessor,

an elderly man with a face in which earnest piety was so happily mingled

with kindly cheerfulness that Barbara rejoiced to know that such a

guardian of souls was at her son’s side.

While he was descending the stairs with her, Barbara noticed one of the

searching glances he secretly cast at her, and wondered what this man’s

pure, keen eyes had probably discovered.

The spacious apartment into which she was now ushered was hung with

costly bright-hued Oriental rugs.

“Gifts from the widow of the Turkish lord high admiral,” the priest

whispered, pointing to the superb textures, and Barbara nodded. She

knew how he had obtained them, but the passionate agitation of her soul

deprived her of the power to inform the monk of this knowledge, of which

probably she would usually have boasted to a friend of her son so worthy

of all respect.

The folding doors of the adjoining room were open. Surely John was

there, and how gladly she would have rushed toward it! But the confessor

asked her to sit down, as the captain-general still had several orders

to give. Then he entered the other room.

Barbara, panting for breath, looked after him and, as she glanced

through the open door, it seemed as though her heart stood still.

Yonder aristocratic gentleman, in the full prime of youthful beauty,

must be her son.

The man from whom she had so long been parted looked like the apparition

of the Count Egmont, at whom she had once gazed full of admiration, with

the wish that her John might resemble him; only she thought her John,

with his open brow and floating, waving golden locks, far handsomer than

the unfortunate victor of St. Quentin and Gravelines.

How noble and yet how easy was the bearing of the dignitary, who was

still less than thirty years old!

His figure was only slightly above middle height. What gave it the air

of such royal stateliness?

Certainly it was not merely his dress, which consisted wholly of velvet,

silk, and satin, with the gold of the Fleece that hung below the lace

ruff at his throat. True, the colours of the costume were becoming.

Dark violet and golden yellow alternated in the slashed doublet and wide

breeches. His father had worn similar apparel when he confessed his love

for her.

Should Barbara regard this as a good omen or an evil one?

He was not yet aware of her arrival for, completely absorbed in the

subject of their conversation, he was talking with his private secretary

Escovedo.

How animated his beautiful features became! how leonine he looked when

he indignantly shook his head with its wealth of golden hair!

Oh, yes! Women’s hearts must indeed fly to him, and Barbara now

understood what she had heard of the beautiful Diana of Sorrento, and

the no less beautiful Alaria Mendoza, and their love for him.

Thus she had imagined him. Yet no! His outer man, in its proud patrician

beauty and winning charm, even surpassed her loftiest expectation. One

thing alone surprised her: the seriousness of his youthful features and

the lines upon his lofty brow.

Why did her favourite of fortune bear these traces of former anxieties?

Now the priest interrupted him. Had he told her John of her entrance?

Yet that was scarcely possible, for his face revealed no trace of filial

pleasure. On the contrary. He rallied his courage, as if he were about

to step into a cold river, straightened himself, and pressed his

right hand, clinched into a fist, upon his hip. Perhaps--the saints be

praised!--Father Dorante might have reminded him of something else, for

he turned to Escovedo again and gave him an order.

Then he waved his hand, flung back his handsome head as King Philip was

in the habit of doing, but in a far nobler, freer manner, hastily passed

his hand through his wavy hair, as if to strengthen his courage, and

then walked slowly, with haughty, almost arrogant dignity, to the door.

On the threshold he paused and looked at her. How bright were the

large blue eyes which now gazed at Barbara with an expression far more

searching than joyous.

Yet even while, with one hand resting on the back of the chair and the

other pressed upon her panting bosom, she was striving to find the right

words, Don John’s glance brightened.

She was not mistaken. He had dreaded this meeting, and now with joyful

surprise was asking himself whether this could be the woman who had been

described to him as a showy, extremely whimsical, perverse person, who

used her son’s renown to obtain access to aristocratic houses and as

many pleasures as possible.

She must at any rate have been remarkably beautiful, and how wonderfully

her delicately chiselled features had retained a charm which is usually

peculiar to youth! how well the now dull gold of her thick tresses

harmonized with the faint flush on the almost unwrinkled face! and how

dignified was the bearing of her figure, still slender, in spite of her

matronly increase in flesh!

No wonder that she had once fired the heart of his distinguished father!

Now--that sunny glance could not deceive Barbara--now her appearance had

ceased to be unpleasant to him; nay, perhaps even pleased him. And now

she could bear it no longer; from the inmost depths of her heart rose

the cry: “John, my child! My dear, dear son!”

Again, with the speed of lightning, the question darted through Don

John’s mind: “Is this the woman whose voice, I was told, offended the

ear? Spiteful, base slander!” How fervent, how gentle, how full of

tender affection her cry had sounded! Not even from the lips of Doha

Magdalena, his much-loved “Tia,” had his own name ever echoed so

musically as from those of yonder woman, whom he had just shrunk from

meeting as though it were an inevitable misfortune.

Shame, regret, love, seethed hotly within him. It was long since he had

felt emotion like that which mastered him when her tearful eyes again

met his, and now, in the enthusiastic soul of this favourite of fortune,

whose lofty flight neither glory, nor fame, nor disappointment could

paralyze, in the bosom of this good, high-minded young human being

stirred the consciousness that a great new happiness was in store for

him, and from his lips rang the cry for which Barbara had waited so long

with vain yearning, “Mother!” and again “Mother!”

It seemed to her as if the bright sun had suddenly burst in its full,

dazzling radiance from midnight darkness. Three swift steps took her to

Don John and, no longer able to control herself, she seized one of the

hands which he had extended to her to kiss it; but his chivalrous nature

forbade him to permit this, and at the same moment he had obeyed the

impulse to kiss the face upturned to his with such loving tenderness.

On the way she had pondered long over the question how she should

address him; but now she knew that she need not call him “Your

Excellency,” far less “Your Highness.” To impose so severe a constraint

upon her poor, poor heart was no longer required and, though interrupted

by low sobbing, she again cried with all the fervour of the most tender

maternal love: “My son! My dear, dear child!”

Then suddenly the words she had vainly sought came voluntarily, and in

fluent speech she told him how her heart had so long consumed itself

with yearning for him, and that she had now left everything behind to

obey his summons; and he thanked her with eager warmth by raising the

hand which clasped his to his lips.

What he desired of her would be hard for her to do, but now that he knew

her it was far harder to ask. Yet it must be done, because upon this

might perhaps depend the great hopes which he fixed upon the future, and

which would atone for what had so cruelly embittered and poisoned the

past.

Barbara gazed more intently into the noble face whose blooming youthful

beauty had just delighted her, and in doing so perceived far more

distinctly the sorrowful, anxious expression which she had formerly

thought she noticed. In pained surprise she inquired what cause he, whom

Heaven had hitherto loaded with its most precious gifts, had to complain

of Fate, as whose spoiled favourite she, like all the rest of the world,

had believed him happy.

He laughed softly, but with such keen bitterness that it pierced her to

the heart, and the bright flush with which joy had suffused her cheeks

suddenly vanished.

Her favourite of Fortune indignantly rejected the belief that he had

reason to look back upon his past life with gratitude and pleasure.

It was incomprehensible and, carried away by the violent agitation which

seized upon her, she described with fiery vivacity how the conviction

that he had gained everything which her hard sacrifice and her prayers

had sought, had beautified her life and helped her to bear even the most

painful trials with quiet submission, nay, with joyous gratitude.

Stimulated by the power of the extraordinary things which she had

experienced, she described in a ceaseless flow of vivid words how she

had torn her child from her soul in order to place it in the path which

was to lead to fame, splendour, and honour--in short, to everything that

adorns and lends value to life.

“And why, in the name of all the saints,” she concluded, “why must I now

tell myself that I endured this great suffering in vain, and that what

filled my heart with joy was only an idle delusion? Yet I watched your

steps as the hunter follows the trail of the game. I saw how every fresh

onset led you to greater splendour, higher renown, and more exalted

grandeur.”

His cheeks, too, had now flushed. What life was still pulsing in the

veins of this woman, already past her youth! with what impressive power

she understood how to describe what moved her! Yet how mistaken was

the view to which maternal love and the desire of her heart had led

her artist nature! She had seen only the light, not the shadow, the

darkness, the gloom, which had clouded his course of fame.

To secure splendour and grandeur for him, she had yielded to the most

cruel demand, and what had been the result of this sacrifice? What had

she gained by it?

How had the happiness in which she fancied she saw him revelling been

constituted?

The power of the newly awakened experiences bore him away also, and he

described no less vividly what he had suffered.

Yes, indeed! He had not lacked great successes, far-reaching renown,

high honours, and some degree of glory. But what a tale he--not yet

thirty--now related! He, the son of an Emperor, the brother of a

powerful King, who was adorned by as many crowns as there were fingers

on his hand!

He had been King Philip’s servant and useful commander in chief, nothing

more.

And now he described the sovereign’s cold nature, unfeeling calculation,

and offensive suspicion. He, Don John, the not all unworthy son of the

great Emperor Charles, was not born to obey all his life, and allow

himself to be turned to account, worn out, and abused for the benefit of

another. He, too, might lay claim to the right of governing a kingdom of

his own as its ruler, benefactor, and Mehrer.

After Lepanto, the crowns of the Morea and Albania had been offered to

him. Then, after he had conquered Tunis for his brother Philip, he had

wished to reign over that country as its king. Had it been ceded to him,

large provinces would have been taken from the infidels. This, it might

have been supposed, was sufficient reason for Philip to intrust it to

his government. But although the Holy Father in Rome and other rulers

had recognised the justice of these wishes, his royal brother could not

be persuaded to grant his just demands, and destroyed these hopes with

cruel coldness. He had not even been induced to recognise him as Infant,

as a lawful member of his family.

With trivial pretexts, and promises which he never intended to fulfil,

the hypocritical, selfish, niggardly man had repulsed, delayed, and put

him off.

So his life had been spoiled by the most cruel disappointments, by a

succession of the bitterest wrongs. Since Lepanto, no pure happiness

had bloomed again for him. He was a miserable, disappointed, ill-treated

man, who could never regain his former happiness until he obtained, on

his own account, what he himself called greatness, honour, glory, and

power. The gifts, no, the more than well-earned payments for which he

was indebted to the King, were only a bodiless shadow, a caricature of

these lofty gifts of Heaven.

His mother, alarmed, cried in terror, “What an ambition!”

But Don John, with increasing excitement, exclaimed: “Yes, mother! I

am so ambitious that, if I knew there was another man who more ardently

desired renown and honour, I would throw myself out of this window. ‘Who

does not struggle ward, falls back!’ has long been my motto, and I am

struggling upward and know the goal.”

A startling suspicion seized Barbara, and with anxious caution she

whispered:

“Do I see aright? You have learned from Flanders and Brabant how

bitterly King Philip is hated there, and you now hope to contend with

him for the crown of the Netherlands? The victory you, my hero, my

general, you would surely attain--” But here she was interrupted.

Don John cut short her words with the cry, “Mother!” and then went on

indignantly: “If any one else had given me this advice, I would

deprive him of any inclination to repeat it. God granted Don Philip the

sovereignty. My oath, my honour, forbid me to rise against him. He has

lost all claim to my love, my gratitude, but he is sure of the fidelity

of his ill-treated brother. Besides,” he added proudly, “my wishes mount

higher.”

Barbara had listened to her son with the utmost eagerness; now, taking a

locket from the breast of his doublet, he whispered:

“Do you know whom this lovely picture represents? No? Well, these are

the features of the fairest and most unfortunate of women. Mary Stuart,

the hapless Queen of Scotland, the devout, patient sufferer for our holy

faith, looks at you from this frame. She does not refuse me her hand.

The Holy Father in Rome and the Guises in France approve the bold

enterprise; but I shall take the army under my command by sea to

England. I am sure of victory in this conflict. With the most beautiful

of women, I shall gain the crown which I need and which will best suit

me.”

“John!” Barbara exclaimed, carried away by the daring of this proposal,

and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “This desire is worthy of you and

your great father. If I can aid you in its realization----”

“You can,” Don John eagerly interrupted; “for the first step is to gain

the consent of the States-General to despatch the army, which must now

be sent back to Spain, thither by sea. When the troops are once on the

way they will steer to England, instead of southward. But even to embark

these forces I shall need the consent of the representatives of the

country. Therefore, difficult as it is for me, the words must be

uttered: Your residence in the provinces will prevent my obtaining it.

Spare me the mention of my reasons; but the circumstance that you always

opened your house to the Spanish party must fill the King’s enemies with

distrust of you. Besides, it is scarcely credible; but you must believe

Escovedo, to whom I owe this information. How petty people in the

provinces can be about such matters! An edict was recently issued which

commands the removal of every official who can not prove that the union

of the parents who gave him life was consecrated by the Holy Church.

Alas, mother, that I should be compelled to wound you at our first

meeting! But if your love is as great as your every glance tells me, as

you have just confessed with such touching warmth----”

“And as I shall confess,” she cried impetuously, “so long as a single

breath stirs this bosom; for I love you, John--love you with all the

strength of this poor, sorely tortured soul. But, child, child! What you

ask of me--It comes so unexpectedly--you have no suspicion how deeply it

pierces into the very heart of my life. I must leave the country which

has become my home, the city where prejudice and enmity greeted me, and

where I have now obtained the position that befits me. A venerable sick

man is in my house, longing for the return of the nurse who left him for

your sake. My poor--The rest that I must cast aside and abandon is

more than I can enumerate now. Nor could I, this request bewilders me

so--Give rue a little time to collect my thoughts, for you see--But if

you look at me so, John, I can--Yet no!--It certainly is not necessary

that I should say yes or no at once. I must first learn whether

you--whether the sacrifice I made for your glory and grandeur--it was in

Landshut, you know--whether it was really so useless, whether you are in

reality as unhappy as you, the fame-crowned, beloved, and lauded child

of an Emperor, would have me believe, or whether--Forgive me, John, but

before I make this terribly difficult decision I must--yes, I must see

clearly. As surely as your hero soul harbours no falsity, it would be

unworthy of you to show your mother a distorted image of your inner

life; you must confess whether you--”

“Whether,” Don John, with a smile of sorrowful bitterness, here

interrupted the deeply troubled woman--“whether, in order to soften your

heart, I am not painting in blacker colours than reality requires. Oh,

how little you know me yet! I would rather this tongue should wither

than that I should unchivalrously permit it to deviate one straw’s

breadth from the truth in order to attain a selfish purpose. No, mother!

My description of the grief which often overpowers this soul was far too

lukewarm. If your first sacrifice was intended to make me a happy man,

its effect was no stronger than the light of the candle which is burned

amid the radiance of the noonday sun. Perhaps I should have been happier

had I been allowed to grow up in modest circumstances under your tender

care; for then my course would have been long and steep, and I should

have been forced to climb many steps to reach the point where barriers

are fixed to ambition. But as it is, I began at the place which many of

the best men regard as the highest goal. The great man whom you loved

understood life better than you. Had I obeyed his wish, and in the

stillness of the cloister striven for blessings which do not belong to

this world, this miserable existence would have seemed less unendurable

to me, then doubtless a much wider space would have separated me from

despair; for I am so unhappy, mother, that I envy the poor peasant who

in the sweat of his brow gathers the harvest which his sterile fields

produce; for years I have been as wretched as the captive lion in

its cage, the lover whose bride is torn from him on the marriage day.

Imagine the wish as a woman, and beside her a magician who, by virtue of

the power which he possesses, cries, ‘The fulfilment of every desire you

strive to attain shall be forever withheld,’ and you will have an idea

of the devastated existence of the pitiable man who, if it were not

sinful, would curse those who gave him the life in which he has long

seen nothing save the horrible, jeering spectre of disappointment.”

“Stop!” moaned Barbara sorrowfully, pressing her hand upon her brow as

if frantic. “So even my hardest sacrifice was futile, and what rendered

life valuable to my foolish heart was mere delusion and bewildering

deception. What I beheld raising you to the stars, as though with

eagles’ wings, was a clogging weight; what seemed to me at a distance

the bright sunshine irradiating your path, was a Will-o’-the-wisp luring

to destruction. What I thought white, was black, the radiant daylight

was dusk and the darkness of night. Oh, if it were really granted me

Yet, child, you certainly do not know what you are asking. So, before it

comes to the final decision, let me put this one more question: Do you

believe, really and firmly, that if the confidence of the States-General

permits you to take your army by sea, and you lead it in England and

succeed in winning the crown and hand of this--whether she is guilty

or not--beautiful, devout, and, whatever errors she has committed,

desirable Queen, that the troubles which it is so hard for your

ambitious soul to bear will then vanish? When you have won the woman

for whom you yearn, the throne, and the sceptre, will your sore heart

be healed and happiness make its joyous entry, and also remain in your

soul, that is so hard to satisfy? For--I see and feel it--it is carried

away by the ‘More, farther,’ of your father. Can you, my John, have you

really the firm conviction that, if this lofty desire is fulfilled, you

will be content and believe that you have found the summit and the limit

of your feverish struggle upward and forward?”

“Yes, and again yes,” cried Don John in a tone of immovably firm belief,

while his large eyes beamed upon his mother with an expression of full

and genuine trust. “The vainglory which your first sacrifice brought me

was the source of this life full of bitter disappointment. The hand of

Mary Stuart, the lovely martyr, the woman so lavishly endowed with every

mental and physical gift, for whom my heart has yearned ever since I saw

her picture, and the crown of England, the symbol of genuine majesty,

will transform disappointment into the fulfilment which Heaven has

hitherto denied me. If these both fall to the lot of the son, the

mother’s sacrifice will not have been in vain; no, it will bring him

golden fruit, for the success of this enterprise will bestow upon your

John, besides the fleeting radiance, the sun whence the light emanates.

It will raise him to the height to which he aspires, and for which Fate

destined him.”

Here he hesitated, for the agitated face of Escovedo, who entered with a

despatch in his hand, showed that something unexpected and startling had

occurred.

The secretary, Don John’s friend and counsellor, did not allow himself

to be intimidated by the angry gesture with which his master waved him

back, but handed him the paper, exclaiming in a tone ringing with

the horror the news had inspired: “Antwerp attacked by his Majesty’s

rebellious troops, those in Alst, headed by their Eletto--burned to

ashes, plundered, destroyed!”

With a hasty snatch Don John seized the parchment announcing the

misfortune, and read it, panting for breath.

The Council of Antwerp had addressed it to King Philip, and sent a copy

to him, the newly appointed governor.

When he let the hand which held the paper fall, he was deadly pale, and

gazed around him as though seeking assistance.

Then his eyes met those of his mother who, seized with anxious fears,

was watching his every movement, and he handed her the fatal sheet, with

the half-sorrowful, half-disdainful exclamation:

“And I am to lead this abused people back to love the man who sent them

the Duke of Alba, that he might heal their wounds with his pitiless iron

hand, and who let the poor, brave fellows in his service starve and go

in rags until, in fierce despair, they seized for themselves what their

employer denied.”

The sheet Barbara’s son had handed to her trembled in her hand as she

read half aloud: “It is the greatest commercial city in Europe, the

fosterer of art, knowledge, manufactures, and the Catholic faith, which

never wavered in obedience to the King, hurled in a single day from the

height of honour and happiness to a gulf of misery, and become a den of

robbers and murderers, who know nothing of God and the King. Old men,

women, and children have been slaughtered by them without distinction,

the goods belonging partly to foreign owners have been stolen and

burned, and the magnificent Town Hall, with all its treasures of

documents and patents, has become a prey of the flames.”

“Horrible! horrible!” cried Barbara, and Don John repeated her words,

and added in a hollow tone: “And this happened yesterday, on the

selfsame Sunday which saw me ride into the Netherlands! These are the

bonfires which redden the heavens on my arrival!”

“William of Orange will call them incendiary flames crying aloud for

vengeance,” fell in half-stifled accents from Barbara’s lips.

“And this time with some reason,” replied Don John in a tone of assent,

“for the men who kindled them are mercenaries of the King, formerly

our own troops, who have been driven to desperation.” Then he continued

passionately: “And Philip sends me--me, a man of the sword--to these

provinces. What is the warrior to do here? This blade is too good

to deal the death-blow to the body which is already bleeding from a

thousand wounds. If, nevertheless, I did it, I should destroy the most

productive fountain of the King’s wealth. It is not a man who can fight

and command an army and a navy that is needed here, but a woman who

understands how to mediate and to heal. The King sent me to this country

not to gather fresh laurels, but to be shipwrecked, and with bleeding

brow return defeated. Oh, I see through him! But I also know--Heaven be

praised!--what I owe to myself, my father’s son. If the States-General

permit me to take the troops away by sea, I will gain the woman and the

crown that are beckoning to me in another country, and his Majesty may

send a more pliant regent of either sex to the provinces to continue

the battle with William of Orange, who fights with weapons which my

straightforward nature and firm sword ill understand how to meet. This

sheet places the decision before me. Real, genuine glory, the fairest of

wives, and a proud crown--or defeat and ruin.”

The close of this outpouring of the young hero’s heart sounded like a

manly, irrevocable resolution; but his mother laid her hand upon his

arm, and said quietly, “I will go.”

A sunny glance of gratitude from her son rested upon her; she, however,

only bent her head slightly and went on as calmly as if she had found

the strength to be content, but with warm affection:

“My first sacrifice was vain. May the second not only aid you to gain

the splendour of a crown, but, above all, instil into your soul the

satisfaction with that longed-for highest happiness which your mother’s

heart desires for you!”

Then Don John obeyed the mighty impulse of his soul to pour forth to his

mother the gratitude and love which her unselfish retirement wrung

from him. His arms clasped her closely and tenderly, and never had

he rewarded even his foster-mother in Villagarcia for her love and

faithfulness with a more affectionate kiss.

“My gratitude will die only with myself,” he cried as he released her.

“Blessed be the day on which I found my own mother! It led you, dear

lady, not only to your John, but to his love.”

Escovedo, moved to the depths of his heart, had listened in surprise

to this outburst of feeling from the famous son of the Emperor, whom

he loved, to whom he had devoted his fine intellect and wealth of

experience, and for whom it was appointed that he should die.

Thus ended Don John’s meeting with his mother, which he had dreaded as

an inevitable evil. Alba, who described her as an extremely obstinate

woman, had advised him to use a stratagem to induce her to yield to his

wish and leave the Netherlands. He was to represent that his sister, the

Duchess Margaret, who was holding her court at Aquila, in the Abruzzi

Mountains, invited her to visit her in order to make her acquaintance.

She would not resist this summons, for she had often made her way to

the government building, and took special pleasure in the society of the

aristocratic Spaniards. When she was once on board a ship, she would

be obliged to submit to being carried to Spain, whence her return could

easily be prevented.

To set such a snare for this woman had been impossible for Don John.

Truth and love had sufficed to induce her to fulfil his wish.

Senor Escovedo had witnessed much that was noble during this hour, but

especially a mother whom in the future he could remember with gratitude

and joy; for Don John’s confidant knew that of all he saw and heard here

not a word was false and feigned, yet he knew better than any other man

his master’s heart and every look. Barbara, too, believed her son no

less confidently, and as the shout of victory reaches combatants lying

on the ground, wounded by lances and arrows, the cry of a secret voice

within her soul, sorely as she was stricken, great as was the sacrifice

and suffering which she had imposed upon herself, called upon her to

rejoice in the highest of all gifts--the love of her child, to whom

hitherto she had been only a dreaded stranger.

She could not yet obtain a clear insight into the result of the promise

which she had given her son; it seemed as though a veil was drawn over

her active mind.

Yet again and again she asked herself what power could have induced her

to grant so quickly and unconditionally to the son a demand which in

her youth she would have refused, with defiant opposition, even to his

ardently loved father. But she took as little trouble to find the answer

as she felt regret for her compliance.

The world to which she returned after this hour had gained a new

aspect. She had not understood the real nature of the former one. The

exclamation which her son’s confession had elicited she still believed

after long reflection. What she had deemed great, was small; what had

seemed to her light and brilliant, was dark. What she had considered

worthy of the greatest sacrifice was petty and trivial; no fountain

of joy, but a fierce torrent of new wishes constantly surpassing one

another. With their boundless extent they had of necessity remained

unfulfilled. Thus woe on woe, and at the same time the painfully

paralyzing feeling of the hostility of Fate had been evoked from its

surges and, instead of happiness, they had brought sorrow and suffering.

Pride in such a son had been the delight of her life; henceforth, she

felt it, she must seek her happiness, her joys, elsewhere, and she

knew also where, and realized that she was receiving higher for smaller

things. Instead of sharing his renown, she had gained the right to share

his misfortune and his griefs.

The more and the more eagerly she pondered in silence, the more surely

she perceived that earthly glory and magnificence, which she had

thought the greatest blessings, were only a series of sunbeams, swiftly

following one another, which would be clouded by one shadow after the

other until darkness and oblivion ingulfed them.

Like every outward splendour, fame dazzles the eyes of men. It would dim

her son’s--she knew it now--whether he looked backward to the past or

forward to the future. The greatness he had gained he overlooked; what

awaited him in the future, having lost his clearness of vision and

impartiality, he was disposed to overvalue.

From her eyes, on the contrary, this knowledge removed veil after veil.

It was a vain delusion which led him to the belief that the Scottish

and English crowns possessed the power to render him happy, and end his

struggle for new and higher honours; for royalty also belonged to the

glory whose worthlessness she now perceived as plainly as the reflection

of her own face in the surface of the mirror.

Barbara saw her son for only a few more fleeting hours; the “Spanish

fury” which destroyed the flower of Antwerp doubled his business cares,

forbade any delay, and imperiously claimed his whole time and strength.

The mother watched his honest labours sorrowfully. She knew that the

chivalrous champion of the faith, the sincere enthusiast, to whom

nothing was higher than honour and the stainless purity of his name,

must succumb to his most eminent foe, the Prince of Orange, with his

tireless, inventive, thoroughly statesmanlike intellect, which preserved

the power of seeing in the darkness, and did not shrink from deceit

where it would promote the great cause which she did not understand, but

to which he consecrated every drop of his heart’s blood, every penny of

his property.

Her son came to the country as a Spaniard and the brother of the hated

Philip on the day of the most abominable crime history ever narrated,

and which his followers committed; and who stood higher in the hearts of

the people of the Netherlands than their beloved helper in need, their

“Father William”?

She saw her son go to this hopeless conflict like a garlanded victim to

the altar. She had nothing to aid him save her prayers and the execution

of the heavy sacrifice which she had resolved to make. The collapse of

her belief, wishes, and expectations produced a transformation of her

whole nature. A world of ideas had crumbled into fragments before and

within her, and from their ruins a new one suddenly sprang up in her

strong soul. Where yesterday her warlike temper had defied or resisted,

to-day she retired with lowered weapons. To contend against her son, and

force her new knowledge upon him, would have seemed to her foolish and

fruitless, for she desired and expected nothing more from him than that

he should keep for her the love she had won.

So she yielded to his desire without resistance. However his destiny

might turn, he should be obliged to admit that his mother had omitted

nothing in her power to open to him the path which, according to his own

opinion, might lead to the height for which he longed.

She made use of his affectionate readiness to serve her only so far as

to beg him to take charge of her son Conrad. He did so willingly, and

endeavoured to induce the young man to enter the priesthood. He wished

to spare him the disappointments which had marred his own life, but

Conrad preferred the army.

His mother did not forget him, and did everything in her power for him.

He remained on terms of affectionate union with her, but he did not

see her again until the gold of her hair was changed to silver, and he

himself had risen to the rank of colonel.

This was to happen in Spain. Barbara had gone there by way of Genoa

under the escort of Count Faconvergue, commander of the German

mercenaries, and while doing so had been treated with the respect and

distinguished consideration which was her due as the mother of Don John

of Austria, who had now acknowledged her.

Like every other wish of her son, Barbara had fulfilled with quiet

indulgence his desire that she would not again enter the Netherlands and

Ghent.

From Luxemburg she directed what should be done with her house, her

servants, and the recipients of her alms. Hannibal Melas relieved her

of the care of Maestro Feys, which she had undertaken, and under his

faithful nursing the old musician was granted many more years of life.

The Maltese also distributed among her poor the large sums which the

sale of Barbara’s property produced.

In Spain she was received with the utmost consideration by the Marquis

de la Mota, Dona Magdalena de Ulloa’s brother, and later by the lady

herself. But at first there was no real bond of affection between these

women, and this was Barbara’s fault, for Dona Magdalena’s experience

was the same as Don John’s. She perceived with shame how greatly she had

undervalued Don John’s mother--nay, how much she had wronged her--but

her sedulous efforts to make amends for the error produced an effect

upon Barbara different from her expectations; for the great lady’s

manner seemed like a confession of guilt, and kept alive the memory of

the anguish of soul which Dona Magdalena had so often inflicted upon

her.

The early death of the young hero whom both loved so tenderly first drew

them together. Barbara had witnessed with very different feelings from

Dona Magdalena and her brother how the former regarded every false step

of Don John, and especially that of his expedition to England, as a

heavy misfortune, and as such bewailed it. Dona Magdalena had been

firmly convinced that the spell of fame which surrounded the victor of

Lepanto, and the irresistible lovableness characteristic of his whole

nature, would finally win the hearts of the Netherlanders, and even

induce the Prince of Orange, whose friendship Don John himself hoped to

gain, to join hands with him in the attempt to work for the welfare of

his country.

Barbara knew that this expectation deceived him.

Toleration and liberty were the blessings which the Prince of Orange

desired to win for his people, and both were hateful to her son, reared

at the Spanish court, as she herself saw in them an encroachment upon

the just demands of the Church and the claims of royalty. Fire and water

could harmonize more easily than these two men, and Barbara foresaw

which of them in this conflict would be the extinguishing flood.

She perceived how waterfall after waterfall was quenching the flames

which burned in Don John’s honest soul for the supposed welfare of the

nation intrusted to him. He was reaping hatred, scorn, and humiliation

wherever he had hoped to win love and gratitude in the Netherlands. His

royal brother left him in the lurch where he was entitled to depend upon

his assistance. But when Philip let the mask fall and showed openly how

deeply he distrusted the glorious son of his dead father, and to what

a degree his ill will had risen--when he committed the cruel crime of

having Escovedo, the devoted, loyal friend and counsellor of the victor

of Lepanto, assassinated in Madrid, where he had come to labour in his

master’s cause--the most ambitious and sensitive of hearts received the

deathblow which was to put an end to his famous career and his young

life.

Scarcely two years after Barbara’s meeting with Don John, the Emperor

Charles’s hero son died. Even in the Netherlands he had remained to the

last victor on the battlefield. Alessandro Farnese, his dearest friend,

his companion in youth, in study, and in war, had valiantly supported

him with his good sword; but his faithful friendship had been unable to

heal the sufferings which wore out Don John’s strong body and brave soul

when, to the severest political failures, was added the bloody treachery

of his royal brother.

The death of this son doubtless first taught Barbara with what cruel

anguish a mother’s heart can be visited; but her John had not really

died to her. Accustomed to love him from a distance, she continued to

live in and with him, and in her thoughts and dreams he remained her

own.

At first, without leaving the lay condition, she had joined the

Dominican Sisters in the Convent of Santa Maria la Real at Cebrian; but

even the slight constraint which life behind stone walls imposed upon

her still seemed unendurable, so she retired to the little city of

Colindres, in the district of Loredo. There stood the deserted house

of Escovedo, the murdered friend and counsellor of her John and, as

everything under its roof reminded her of the beloved dead, it seemed

the most fitting spot in which to pass the remnant of her days. In it

she led an independent but quiet, secluded life. She spent only a few

maravedis for her own wants, while she used the thousands of ducats

which, after her son’s death, King Philip awarded her as an annual

income, to make life easier for the poor and the sick whom she

affectionately sought out.

With every tear she dried she believed that she was showing the best

honour to her son’s memory.

She was denied the pleasure of placing a flower upon his grave, for King

Philip had done his dead brother the honour which he withheld from him

during life and, though only as a corpse, received him among the members

of his illustrious race. His coffin had been entombed in the cold family

vault of the Escurial, where no sunbeam enters.

But Barbara needed no place associated with his person in order to

remember him; she always felt near him, and memories were the vital

air which nourished her soul. Music remained the best ornament of her

solitary existence, and never did the forms of the son and the father

come nearer to her than when she sang the songs--or in after years

played them on the harp and lute--to which her imperial lover had liked

to listen.

The memory of her John’s father now taught her to change the “More,

farther,” of his motto into the maxim, “Learn to be content,” the memory

of the son, that every sacrifice which we make for the happiness of

another is futile if, besides splendour and glory, fame and honour, it

does not also gain the spiritual blessings whose possession first lends

those gifts genuine value. These much-envied favours of Fortune had

little to do with the indestructible monument which she erected in

her heart to her son and her lover. What built it and lent it eternal

endurance were the modest gifts of the heart.

She now knew the names of the blessings which might have guided her boy

to a loftier happiness and, full of the love which even death could not

assail and lessen, mourned by many, Barbara Blomberg, at an advanced

age, closed her eyes upon the world.

ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS:

A live dog is better than a dead king

Always more good things in a poor family which was once rich

Attain a lofty height from which to look down upon others

Before learning to obey, he was permitted to command

Catholic, but his stomach desired to be Protestant (Erasmus)

Dread which the ancients had of the envy of the gods

Grief is grief, and this new sorrow does not change the old one

Harder it is to win a thing the higher its value becomes

No happiness will thrive on bread and water

Shuns the downward glance of compassion

That tears were the best portion of all human life

The blessing of those who are more than they seem

The greatness he had gained he overlooked

To the child death is only slumber

Who does not struggle hard, falls back

Whoever will not hear, must feel

End of Project Gutenberg’s Barbara Blomberg, Complete, by Georg Ebers