Everything in Barbara's residence had remained as it was when she
arrived, only the second story, since the departure of the marquise, had
stood empty. Two horses had been left in the stable, the steward
performed his duties as before, the cook presided in the kitchen, and
Frau Lamperi attended to Barbara's rooms.
Nevertheless, at Wolf's first visit he was obliged to exert all his
powers of persuasion to induce his miserable friend to give up her
resolution of moving into her former home. Besides, after the
conversation with Charles's messenger, she had felt so ill that no
visitor except himself had been received.
When, a few days later, she learned that the Emperor had set out for
Landshut, she entreated Wolf to seek out Pyramus Kogel, for she had just
learned that during her illness her father's travelling companion had
asked to see her, but, like every one else, had been refused. She
grieved because they had forgotten to tell her this; but when she
discovered that the same stately officer had called again soon after the
relapse, she angrily upbraided, for the first time, Frau Lamperi, who was
to blame for the neglect, and her grief increased when, on the same day,
a messenger brought from the man who had twice been denied admittance a
letter which inclosed one from her father, and briefly informed her that
he should set out at once for Landshut. As she would not receive him,
he must send her the captain's messages in this way.
It appeared from the old man's letter that, while leaving the ship at
Antwerp, he had met with an accident, and perhaps might long be prevented
from undertaking the toilsome journey home. But he was well cared for,
and if she was still his clear daughter, she must treat Herr Pyramus
Kogel kindly this time, for he had proved a faithful son and good
Samaritan to him.
A stranger's hand had written this letter, which contained nothing more
about the old soldier's health, but reminded her of a tin tankard which
he had forgotten to deliver, and urged her to care for the ever-burning
lamp in the chapel. It closed with the request to offer his profound
reverence at the feet of his Majesty, the most gracious, most glorious,
and most powerful Emperor, and the remark that there was much to say
about the country of Spain, but the best was certainly when one thought
of it after turning the back upon it.
As a postscript, he had written with his own hand, as the crooked letters
showed: "Mind what I told you about Sir Pyramus, without whom you would
now be a deserted orphan. Can you believe that in all Spain there is no
fresh butter to be had, either for bread or in the kitchen for roast
meat, but instead rancid oil, which we should think just fit for
burning?"
With deep shame Barbara realized through this letter how rarely she
remembered her father. Only since she knew positively what joy and what
anxiety awaited her had she again thought frequently of him, but always
with great fear of the old man whose head had grown gray in an honourable
life. Now the hour was approaching when she would be obliged to confess
to him what she still strove to deem a peerless favour of Fate, for which
future generations would envy her. Perhaps he who looked up to the
Emperor Charles with such enthusiastic devotion would agree with her;
perhaps what she must disclose to him would spoil the remainder of his
life. The image of the aged sufferer, lying in pain and sorrow far from
her old his home, in a stranger's house, constantly forced itself upon
her, and she often dwelt upon it, imagining it with ingenious self-
torture.
Love for another had estranged her from him who possessed the first claim
to every feeling of tenderness and gratitude in her heart. The thought
that she could do nothing for him and give him no token of her love
pierced deep into her soul. Every impulse of her being urged her to
learn further details of him and his condition. As Pyramus Kogel was
staying in Landshut, she wrote a note entreating him, if possible, to
come to Ratisbon to tell her about her father, or, if this could not be,
to inform her by letter how he fared.
There was no lack of messengers going to Landshut, and the answer was not
delayed. During these war times, Pyramus answered, he was not his own
master even for a moment; therefore he must deny himself a visit to her,
and he also lacked time for a detailed account by letter. If, however,
she could resolve to do him the honour of a visit, he would promise her a
more cordial reception than he had experienced on her side. For the
rest, her father was being carefully nursed, and his life was no longer
in danger.
At first Barbara took this letter for an ungenerous attempt of the
insulted man to repay the humiliation which he had received from her; but
the news from the throngs of troops pouring into the city made the
officer's request appear in a milder light, and the longing to ascertain
her father's condition daily increased.
At the end of the first week in August her strength would have sufficed
for the short drive to Landshut. True, she was as hoarse as when she
gave the physician a disinclination to return, but she had regained her
physical vigour, and had taken walks, without special fatigue, sometimes
with Wolf, sometimes with Gombert. The latter, as well as Appenzelder,
still frequently called upon her, and tried to diminish her grief over
the injury to her voice by telling her of hundreds of similar cases which
had resulted favourably.
The musicians were to return to Brussels the next day. Appenzelder would
not leave his boy choir, but Gombert had accepted an invitation from
the Duke of Bavaria, at whose court in Munich the best music was eagerly
fostered. His road would lead him through Landshut, and how more than
gladly Barbara would have accompanied him there!
She must now bid farewell to Appenzelder and Massi, and it was evident
that the parting was hard for them also. The eyes of the former even
grew dim with tears as he pressed a farewell kiss upon Barbara's brow.
The little Maltese, Hannibal Melas, would have preferred to stay with
her--nay, he did not cease entreating her to keep him, though only as
a page; but how could he have been useful to her?
Finally, she was obliged to bid Wolf, too, farewell, perhaps for many
years.
During the last few days he had again proved his old friendship in the
most loyal manner. Through Quijada he had learned everything which
concerned her and the Emperor Charles, and this had transformed his
former love for Barbara, which was by no means dead, into tender
compassion.
Not to serve the monarch or the husband of his new mistress in
Villagarcia, but merely to lighten her own hard fate, he had not ceased
to represent what consequences it might entail upon her if she should
continue to defy the Emperor's command so obstinately.
He, too, saw in the convent the fitting place for her future life, now
bereft of its best possessions; but although she succeeded in retaining
her composure during his entreaties and warnings, she still most
positively refused to obey the Emperor's order.
Her strong desire to visit Landshut was by no means solely from the
necessity of hearing the particulars about her father, and the wish to
see so brilliant an assemblage of troops from all countries, but
especially the consuming longing to gaze once more into the face of the
lover who was now making her so miserable, yet to whom she owed the
greatest joy of her life.
And more!
She thought it would restore her peace of mind forever if she could
succeed in speaking to him for even one brief moment and telling him what
a transformation his guilt had wrought in her ardent love and her whole
nature.
Wolf's representations and imploring entreaties remained as futile as
those of Sister Hyacinthe and the abbesses of the Clare Sisters and the
Convent of the Holy Cross, who had sought her by the confessor's wish.
None of these pious women, except her nurse, knew the hope she cherished.
They saw in her only the Emperor's discarded love; yet as such it seemed
to them that Barbara was bidden to turn her back upon the world, which
had nothing similar to offer her, in order, as the Saviour's bride, to
seek a new and loftier happiness.
But Barbara's vivacious temperament shrank from their summons as from the
tomb or the dungeon and, with all due reverence, she said so to the
kindly nuns.
She desired no new happiness, nay, she could not imagine that she would
ever again find joy in anything save the heavenly gift which she expected
with increasing fear, and yet glad hope. Yet they wished to deprive her
of this exquisite treasure, this peerless comfort for the soul! But she
had learned how to defend herself, and they should never succeed in
accomplishing this shameful purpose. She would keep her child, though it
increased the Emperor's resentment to the highest pitch, and deprived her
of every expectation of his care.
Eagerly as Wolf praised Quijada's noble nature, she commanded him to
assure the Castilian, whose messenger he honestly confessed himself to
be, that she would die rather than yield to the Emperor's demands.
When the time at last came to part from Wolf also, and he pressed his
lips to her hand, she felt that she could rely upon him, no matter how
sad her future life might be. He added many another kind and friendly
word; then, in an outburst of painful emotion, cried: "If only you had
been contented with my faithful love, Wawerl, how very different, how
much better everything would have been, how happy I might be! and, if
loyal love possesses the power of bestowing happiness, you, too----"
Here Barbara pointed mournfully to her poor aching throat and, while he
earnestly protested that, deeply as he lamented the injury to her voice,
this cruel misfortune would by no means have lessened his love, her eyes
suddenly flashed, and there was a strange quiver around the corners of
her mouth as she thought: "Keep that opinion. But I would not exchange
for a long life, overflowing with the happiness which you, dear, good
fellow, could offer me, the brief May weeks that placed me among the few
who are permitted to taste the highest measure of happiness."
Yet she listened with sincere sympathy to what he had heard of
Villagarcia and Magdalena de Ulloa, Quijada's wife, and what he expected
to find there and in Valladolid.
It pleased her most to know that he would be permitted to return
sometimes to the Netherlands. When once there, he must seek her out
wherever her uncertain destiny had cast her.
When, in saying this, her hoarse voice failed and tears of pain and
sorrow filled her eyes, emotion overpowered him also and, after he had
again urged her to submit to the will of their imperial master, he tore
himself away with a last farewell.
The ardent, long-cherished passion which had brought the young knight
full of hope to Ratisbon had changed to compassion. With drooping head,
disappointed, and heavily burdened with anxiety for the future of the
woman who had exerted so powerful an influence upon his fate, he left the
home of his childhood; but Barbara saw him go with the sorrowful fear
that, in the rural solitude which awaited him in Spain, her talented
friend would lose his art and every loftier aspiration; yet both felt
sure that, whatever might be the course of their lives, each would hold
a firm place in the other's memory.
A few hours after this farewell Barbara received a letter from the
Council, in which Wolf Hartschwert secured to her and her father during
their lives the free use of the house which he had inherited in Red Cock
Street, with the sole condition of allowing his faithful Ursula to occupy
the second story until her death.
The astonished girl at once went to express her thanks for so much
kindness; but Wolf had left Ratisbon a short time before, and when
Barbara entered the house she found old Ursula at the window with her
tear-stained face resting on her clasped hands. When she heard her name
called, she raised her little head framed in the big cap, and as soon as
she recognised the unexpected visitor she cast so malevolent a glance at
her that a shiver ran through the girl's frame.
After a few brief words of greeting, Barbara left the old woman,
resolving not to enter the house soon again.
In passing the chapel she could and would not resist its strong power of
attraction. With bowed head she entered the quiet little sanctuary,
repeated a paternoster, and prayed fervently to the Mother of God to
restore the clearness of her voice once more. While doing so, she
imagined that the gracious intercessor gazed down upon her sometimes
compassionately, sometimes reproachfully, and, in the consciousness of
her guilt, she raised her hands, imploring forgiveness, to the friendly,
familiar figure.
How tenderly the Christ-child nestled to the pure, exalted mother!
Heaven intended to bestow a similar exquisite gift upon her also, and
already insolent hands were outstretched to tear it from her. True, she
was determined to defend herself bravely, yet her best friend advised her
to yield without resistance to this unprecedented demand.
What should she do?
With her brow pressed against the priedieu, she strove to attain calm
reflection in the presence of the powerful and gracious Queen of Heaven.
If she yielded the child to its cruel father, she would thereby surrender
to him the only happiness to which she still possessed a claim; if she
succeeded in keeping it for herself, she would deprive it of the favour
of the mighty sovereign, who possessed the power to bestow upon it
everything which the human heart craves. Should she persist in
resistance or yield to the person to whom she had already sacrificed so
much the great blessing which had the ability to console her for every
other loss, even the most cruel?
Then her refractory heart again rebelled. This was too much; Heaven
itself could not require it of her, the divine Mother who, before her
eyes, was pressing her child so tenderly to her bosom, least of all.
Hers, too, would be a gift of God, and, while repeating this to herself,
it seemed as though a voice cried out: "It is the Lord himself who
intends to confide this child to you, and if you give it up you deprive
it of its mother and rob it--you have learned that yourself--of its best
possession. What was given to you to cherish tenderly, you can not
confide to another without angering him who bestowed the guerdon upon
you."
Just at that moment she thought of the star, her lover's first memento,
with which she had parted from weakness, though with a good intention.
The misfortune which she was now enduring had grown out of this
lamentable yielding. No! She would not, ought not to allow herself to
be robbed of her precious hope. One glance at the Mother and Child put
an end to any further consideration.
Comforted and strengthened, she went her way homeward, scarcely noticing
that Peter Schlumperger and his sister, whom she met, looked away from
her with evident purpose.