The Trumpeter of Sakkingen Part 31

Said the Baron: "Take her with you; And may Heaven grant its blessing, That you may bring back my daughter Rosy-cheeked and happy-hearted."

Thus to Italy they travelled With old Anton as their coachman.

Now the carriage-door he opened, And alighting, the old Abbess, Followed by fair Margaretta, Walked up to the church and entered.

Margaretta gazed in wonder At the vastness of the building, Where man seems reduced to nothing; At the giant marble columns, And the dome with gold overladen.

In the niche of the great nave stands The bronze statue of St. Peter, Which this day in papal vestments Was arrayed, the gold brocade robe Hanging stiffly on the statue; On the head the Bishop's mitre.

And they saw how many people Kissed the foot of this bronze statue.

Then a papal chamberlain led Both the German ladies forward To a seat close by the altar, Place of honour kept for strangers.

Now was heard the sound of music; And the Holy Father coming Through the side-door from the Vatican Made his entrance to St. Peter's.

Stout Swiss halberdiers were marching At the head of the procession, Followed by the celebrated Singers of the papal choir.

Heavy music-books were carried By the choristers, some hardly Strong enough to bear the folios.

Then there came in motley order Monsignori robed in violet; Abbots followed then and prelates, And the canons of St. Peter's, Heavy looking, their fat figures Corresponding to their livings.

Leaning on his staff the General Of the Capuchins walked slowly For a load of more than ninety Years was resting on his shoulders; But his brain was working out still Many plans with youthful vigour.

With Franciscans from the cloister Ara c[oe]li also came the Prior of Pallazuola.

By the sh.o.r.es of Lake Albano, 'Neath the shade of Monte Cavo, Stands his little monastery, Peaceful spot for idle dreamers.

On he walked in deep thought buried; And who knows wherefore his mutterings Did not sound like prayer, but more like "Fare-thee-well, Amalia."

After them the choicest portion, All the cardinals, were walking, Their long robes of scarlet colour On the marble pavement trailing.

"Heart, be patient," so was thinking Cardinal di Ottoboni; "Now I'm second to the Pope yet, But in seven years most likely I shall mount St Peter's chair."

Then a train of cavaliers came With their shining swords, and followed In strict military order; 'Twas the Pope's own guard of honour.

And at last the Holy Father Made his entrance, being carried On a throne by eight strong bearers.

O'er his head were held by pages The great fans of peac.o.c.k-feathers.

Snow-white were his festal garments; And his right hand, raised in blessing, Wore the signet-ring of Peter.

Low the crowd knelt down in silence.

At the foot of the High Altar The procession had arrived now, And the Pope held solemn service Over the Apostle's grave.

Solemnly and gravely sounded The peculiar choral measures Which old Master Palestrina Had in his strict style composed.

And the aged Lady Abbess Prayed with fervent deep devotion.

But fair Margaretta's glances Were directed up to heaven, Whence these solemn strains of music Seemed to her to be descending.

But her eye was then attracted To the singers' box--she trembled: For, amid the group of singers, Though half hidden by a column, Stood a stately light-haired figure.

And again she looked now upward; From her sight the Pope had vanished, All the Cardinals had vanished, Likewise all the nine-and-eighty Burning lamps o'er Peter's grave.

"My old dream, dost thou return then?

My old dream, why dost thou haunt me Even in these sacred precincts?"

The last notes had died out softly, And the Holy Ma.s.s was ended.

"Oh how pale you look, dear lady!"

Said the aged Lady Abbess.

"Take my vial, it will help you, It contains the finest essence Which I bought myself in Florence At the cloister of San Marco."

The procession of the singers Pa.s.sed just then before the ladies.

"G.o.d in heaven! oh have mercy!

Yes, 'tis he! I know the scar there On his brow--it is my Werner!"

Dark before her eyes it grew now, And her heart was beating wildly.

No more could her feet support her, And the maiden sank down fainting On the hard cold floor of marble.

SIXTEENTH PART.

SOLUTION AND END.

Innocentius the Eleventh Was kind-hearted; and his dinner He had just now greatly relished.

At dessert he still was sitting, And while luscious fruit enjoying, Said to Cardinal Albani: "Who was that young pallid lady, Who this morning in St. Peter's Fell upon the floor and fainted?"

Answered Cardinal Albani: "On this subject just at present I can give no information; But the Monsignor Venusto I will ask, for he knows always What in Rome is daily happening; Knows what in salons is gossiped, What the senators are doing, What is drunk by Flemish artists, What is sung by Prima Donnas, Even what the puppet-show is Playing on the Square Navona.

There is naught the Monsignore Can't unravel and discover."

E'en before was served the coffee (At that time this was a novel Beverage and rarely taken, Only on the highest feast-days) Had the Cardinal already Learnt the facts. He thus related: "This pale maiden is a n.o.ble Lady, who has travelled hither With that German Princess Abbess; And she saw--most marvellously-- In the church a man this morning, Whom she once had lost her heart with, And whom, still more marvellously, She unto this day is loving, Notwithstanding and in spite of Want of n.o.ble birth and t.i.tles, And her father's stem refusal.

And the cause of this her fainting Is, again most marvellously, No one else but Signor Werner, Chapel-master to your Holiness.

This the Monsignor Venusto Heard to-day, when on a visit To the Abbess who related Confidentially these facts."

Then the Pope said: "This is truly A most strange and touching meeting.

Were the subject not too modern, And the actors of the drama Not such semi-barbarous Germans, Then some poet might win laurels In the sweet groves of Arcadia, Should he sing this wondrous meeting.

But I truly take an interest In the grave young Signor Werner.

Greatly has improved the singing Of my choir, since he leads it, And the taste for solemn music; While my own Italian singers Care too much for operatic Tunes of lighter character.

Quietly he does his duty, Of his own accord ne'er speaking; Never begs of me a favour; Never was his hand extended To receive the gifts of bribery.

Yet examples of corruption Are more frequent with us, surely, Than the fleas in sultry summer.

Monsignor Venusto knows this!

Seems to me that this grave German Is consumed by secret sorrow.

I should really like to know now, If he's thinking of his love yet?"

Said the Cardinal Albani: "I well-nigh may answer for this.

In the books kept on the conduct Of all high and low officials In the State and Church departments, It is mentioned as a wonder That he strictly shuns all women.

First we nourished a suspicion That his heart had fallen victim To the charms of the fair hostess Of the inn near Vale Egeria.

He was seen each evening strolling Through the Porta Sebastiano, And outside there is no dwelling But the tavern just now mentioned.

Thus such nightly promenading Of one yet in early manhood Could not but arouse suspicion.

Therefore we once sent two persons Carefully to track his footsteps, But they found him 'mid the ruined Tombs along the Appian Way.

There had once a great patrician Built a tomb to his freed woman, Whom he'd brought as a remembrance From Judaea, at the time of The destruction of the Temple.

She was called Zatcha Achyba.

There he sat, the spies related; 'Twas a subject for an artist: The Campagna's sombre landscape; Moonlight on the marble tombstone; He his mantle wrapped around him; Mournfully he blew his trumpet Through the gloomy lonely silence.

This had brought upon him later Many mocking jeers like this one: 'Signor Werner is composing For the Jewess there a requiem.'"

At this smiled the Holy Father, And the Cardinals did likewise; Following these high examples, All the chamberlains smiled also; Even Carlo Dolci's features Now relaxed their gloomy sadness.

And the Pope said: "We must all have Great respect for this young German.

It were well if many others Who at night away are stealing, To the Appian Way were going.

Signor Werner, I a.s.sure you, Stands most high in my good graces, And to-morrow he shall see it; For, I recollect, I've granted Then an audience to the Abbess."

On the first day of July in Sixteen hundred seventy-nine, there Rose the sun with special glory.

Cooling blew the tramontana Through the cypresses and myrtles In the Vatican's fair garden; And the half-parched flowers gladly Raised their heads, breathed out fresh fragrance, O'er the bronze gigantic pine-cone,-- Which once Hadrian's museum Had adorned, and now was living 'Mid the jessamines and roses, As a pensioner contented,-- Lively lizards swiftly glided, Snapping at the tiny insects Ever dancing in the sunshine.

Fountains played, and birds were singing; E'en the pale old marble statues With warm life became imbued.

And the satyr, with his reed flute, Raised his foot as if intending To go dancing round the garden; But Apollo's hand waved warning: "Friend, those times have pa.s.sed forever; Thou wouldst only raise a scandal."

Bathed in sunlight, Rome looks smiling O'er the river at the Vatican; From the sea of houses, churches, And fair palaces, the Quirinal Proudly rises; in the distance Towers up the Capitolium In the violet autumn haze.