Chapter III: Preface (3)

Joseph and Nanny knelt down, and received the paternal benediction. All wept and exhibited much emotion. But all was festivity in No. 7, on the Danube, that evening, when the organist, Joseph Haydn, was solemnly betrothed to the fair Nanny, the daughter of Wenzel Puderlein, burgher and proprietor in the Leopoldstadt in Vienna.

The Baron of Fürnberg and young von Swieten were not a little astonished when they came the next morning to take Haydn from Puderlein’s house, to find him affianced to the pretty Nanny. They remonstrated with him earnestly in private, but Joseph remained immoveable, and kept his word pledged to Puderlein and his bride, like an honorable young man.

At a later period he had reason to acknowledge that the step he had taken was somewhat precipitate; but he never repented it; and consoled himself, when his _earthly_ muse mingled a little discord with his tones, with the companionship of the immortal partner, ever lovely, ever young, who attends the skilful artist through life, and who proved herself so true to _him_, that the name of JOSEPH HAYDN shall, after the lapse of centuries, be pronounced with joyful and sacred emotion, by our latest posterity.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] The diminutive for “Joseph” in the dialect of the country.

TWO PERIODS IN AFTER LIFE.

I.

It was about noon of a day in the spring of 175-, that a man of low stature and pale and sallow complexion might have been seen entering a meanlooking house in one of the narrow streets of Vienna. Before he closed the door, the sound of a sharp female voice, speaking in shrill accents, was quite audible to the passers-by. As the person who entered ascended the stairs to his lodgings, he was greeted by a continuance of the same melody from the lips of a pretty but slovenly dressed young woman, who stood at the door of the only apartment that seemed furnished.

“A pretty mess is all this!” she exclaimed. “Here the printers have been running after you all the morning for the piece you promised to have ready for them, and I nothing to do but hear their complaints and send them away one after the other!”

“My good Nanny----”

“But, my good Joseph, is not my time as precious as yours, pray? What have you from this morning’s work?”

“Seventeen kreutzers,” sighed he.

“Ay, it is always so--and you spend all your time in such profitless doings. At eight, the singing desk of the brothers de la Merci; at ten, the Count de Haugwitz’s chapel; grand mass at eleven--and all this toil for a few kreutzers.”

“What can I do?”

“Do? What would I do in your place? Give up this foolish business of music, and take to something that will enable you to live as well as a peasant, at least. There is my father, a hairdresser, did not he give you shelter when you had nothing but your garret and skylight?--when you had to lie in bed and write for want of coals to warm you? Yes, in spite of your boasted genius and the praises you received, you were forced to come to him for bread!”

“He gave me more, Nanny,” said her husband, meaningly.

“Yes--his daughter, who had refused half the gallants in Vienna--for whom half-a-dozen peruke-maker’s apprentices went mad. Yes--and had he not a right to expect you would dress her as well as she had been used at home, and that she should have servants to wait upon her as in her father’s house? A fine realizing of his hopes and schemes for his favorite child--this miserable lodging, with but a few sous a day to keep us from starving!”

“You should not reproach me, Nanny. Have I not worked incessantly till my health has given way? And if fortune is still inexorable----”

“Ah, there it is, fortune!--as if fortune did not always wait, like a handmaid, upon industry in a proper calling! Your patrons may admire and applaud, but they will not pay; and yet you will drudge away your life in this ungrateful occupation. I tell you, Joseph, music is not the thing.”

“Alas!” sighed Haydn, “I once dreamed of fame.”

“Fame--pshaw! And what were that worth if you had it? Would fame clothe you or change these wretched walls to a palace? Believe me for once, and give up these idle fancies.”

Here a knock was heard at the door, and the wife, with exclamations of impatience, flounced away. The unfortunate artist threw himself on a seat, and leaned his head on a table covered with notes of music--works of his own, begun at various times, which want of health, energy or spirits, had prevented him from completing. So entirely had he yielded himself to despondency, that he did not move, even when the door opened, till the sound of a well known voice close at his side startled him from his melancholy reverie.

“How now, Haydn, what is the matter, my boy?”

The speaker was an old man, shabbily dressed, but with something striking and even commanding in his noble features. His large, dark, flashing eyes, his olive complexion and the contour of his face, bespoke him a native of a sunnier clime than that of Germany.

Haydn sprang up and welcomed him with a cordial embrace. “And when, my dear Porpora, did you return to Vienna?” he asked.

“This morning only; and my first care was to find you out. But how is this? I find you thin and pale, and gloomy. Where are your spirits?”

“Gone,” murmured the composer, and dropped his eyes on the floor. His visitor regarded him with a look of affectionate interest.

“There is something more in this than there ought to be,” said he, at length. “You are not rich, as I see; but that you were not when we last parted, nor when I first found--in the youthful, disinterested friend, the kind companion of a feeble old man--a genius such as Germany might be well proud of. Then you were buoyant, full of enthusiasm for art, and of hope for the future.”

“Alas!” replied Haydn, “I was too sanguine. I judged more favorably of myself----”

“Did I not say you were destined to something great?”

“Your friendship might deceive you.”

“And think you I had lost my judgment because I am old?--or am a fool, to be blinded by partiality?”

“Nay, dear Porpora----”

“Or that, because you were fain to serve me like a lacquey from pure love, I rewarded you with flattering lies, eh?”

“Caro, you mistake me. I know you clearsighted and candid--yet I feel that I shall never justify your kind encouragement. I have toiled till youth is passing away in vain. I have no heart to bear up against the crushing hand of poverty--I succumb.”

“You have lost, then, your love of our art?”

“Not so. What your valuable lessons, dear master, have opened to me, forms the only bright spot in my life. Oh that I could pursue--could grasp it!”

“Why can you not?”

“I am chained!” cried Haydn, bitterly--and giving way to the anguish of his heart, he burst into tears.

Porpora shook his head, and was silent for a few moments. At length he resumed--“I must, I see, give you a little of my experience; and you shall see what has been the life of a prosperous artist. I was, you know, the pupil of Scarlatti; and from the time I felt myself capable of profiting by the lessons of that great master, devoted myself to travel. I was more fortunate than you, for my works procured me, almost at once, a wide-spread fame. I was called for not only in Venice, but in Vienna and London.”

“Ah, yours was a brilliant lot!” cried the young composer, looking up with kindling eyes.

“The Saxon court,” continued Porpora, “which has always granted the most liberal protection to musical art, offered me the direction of the chapel and of the theatre at Dresden. Even the princesses received my lessons--in short, my success was so great, that I awakened the jealousy of Hasse himself.”

“That was a greater triumph still,” observed Haydn, smiling.

“So I thought; and still greater when I caused a pupil of mine, the young Italian Mengotti, to dispute the palm of song with the enchantress Faustina[4]--aye, to bear it away upon more than one occasion. All this you know, and how I returned to London upon the invitation of amateurs in Italian music.”

“Where you rivaled Händel!” said Haydn, enthusiastically.

“Ah, that was the turning point in my destiny. Farinelli, the famous singer, gloried in being my scholar. He turned all his splendid powers to the effort of assuring the triumph of my compositions. I could have borne that these should fail in commanding popularity; I could have borne the defeat by which Händel was elevated at my expense to an idol shrine among the English--but it grieved me to see that Farinelli’s style, so really perfect in its way, was unappreciated by the most distinguished connoisseurs. I did justice to the strength and grandeur of my rival; should he not have acknowledged the grace, finish and sweetness of Italian song? But he despised Farinelli, and his friends made caricatures of him.”

“Händel, with all his greatness, had no versatility,” observed Haydn.

“I wished to attempt another style, for this repulse had somewhat cooled my zeal for the theatre. I set myself to cultivate what was new--what was not born with me. I published my sonatas for the violin--the connoisseurs applauded, and I was encouraged to hope I could face my rival on his own ground. I composed sacred music----”

“And that,” interrupted his auditor, “will live--pardon me for saying so--when your theatrical compositions have ceased to enjoy unrivaled popularity.”

“When they are forgotten, say rather--for such, I feel, will be their fate. My sacred compositions may survive and carry my name to posterity--for taste in such things is less mutable than in the opera. After all, the monks may claim me,” and he smiled pensively.[5] “You see now, dear Haydn,” he resumed, after a pause, “for what I have lived and labored. I was once renowned and wealthy--what did prosperity bring me? Envy, discontent, rivalship, disappointment! And did art flourish more luxuriantly on such a soil? With me the heavenly plant languished, and would have died but that I had some energy within me to save it. I repine when I look back on those years.”

“You?” repeated Haydn, surprised.

“Would you know to what period I _can_ look back with self-approbation, with thankfulness? To the toil of my early years; to the struggle after an ideal of greatness, goodness and beauty; to the self-forgetfulness that saw only the glorious goal far, far before me; to the undismayed resolve that sought only its attainment. Or to a time still later, when the visions of manhood’s impure and selfish ambition had faded away; when the soul had shaken off some of her fetters, and roused herself to a perception of the eternal, the perfect, the divine; when I became conscious of the delusive vanity of earthly hopes and earthly excellence, but at the same time awakened to the revelation of that which cannot die!

“You see me now, seventy-three years old, and too poor to command even a shelter for the few days that yet remain to me in this world. I have lost the splendid fame I once possessed; I have lost the riches that were mine; I have lost the power to win even a competence by my own labors--but I have _not_ lost my passion for our glorious music, nor enjoyment of the reward, more precious than gold, she bestows on her votaries; nor my confidence in Heaven. And you, at twenty-seven, you--more greatly endowed--to whom the world is open--_you_ despair! Are you worthy to succeed, O man of little faith?”

“My friend--my benefactor!” cried the young artist, clasping his hand with deep emotion.

“Cast away your bonds; cut and rend, if your very flesh is torn in the effort; and the ground once spurned, you are free. Come, I am pledged for your success--for if you do not rise, I am no prophet! What have you been doing?” and he turned over rapidly the musical notes that lay on the table. “Here, what is this--a symphony? Play for me, if you please.”

So saying, with a gentle force he led his young friend to the piano, and Haydn played from the piece he had nearly completed.

“So, this is excellent, admirable!” cried Porpora, when he rose from the instrument. “This suits me exactly. And you could despair while such power remained to you! When can you finish this? for I must have it at once.”

“To-morrow, if you like,” answered the composer, more cheerfully.

“To-morrow then--and you must work to-night. I see you are nervous and feverish; but seize the happy thought while it flies--once gone, you have no cord to draw it back. I will go and order you a physician;--not a word of remonstrance;--he will come to-morrow morning;--how madly your pulse throbs--and when your work is done, you may rest. Adieu for the present.” And pressing his young friend’s hands, the eccentric but benevolent old man departed--leaving Haydn full of new thoughts, his bosom fired with zeal to struggle against adverse fortune. In such moods does the spiritual champion wrestle with the powers of the abyss and mightily prevail.

When Haydn, late that night, threw himself on his bed, weary, ill and exhausted, his frame racked with the pains of fever, after having worked for hours in the midst of reproaches from her who ought to have lightened his task by her sympathy, he had accomplished the first of an order of works destined to endear his name to all succeeding time. Who that listened to its clear and beautiful melody, could have divined that such a production had been wrought out in the gloom of despondency, poverty and disease?

* * * * *

While the artist lay on a sick bed, attended only by the few friends whom compassion more than admiration of his genius called to his side, and forgotten by the great and gay to whose amusement so many years of his life had been devoted, a brilliant fête was given by Count Mortzin, an Austrian nobleman of immense wealth and influence, at which the most distinguished individuals in Vienna were present. The musical entertainments given by these luxurious patrons of the arts were, at that time and for some years after, the most splendid in Europe, for the most exalted genius was enlisted in their service--and talent, as in all ages, was often fain to do homage to riches and power.

When the concert was over, Prince Antoine Esterhazy expressed the pleasure he had received, and his obligations to the noble host. “Chief among your magnificent novelties,” said he, “is the new symphony, St. Maria. One does not hear every day such music. Who is the composer?”

The Count referred to one of his friends. The answer was--“Joseph Haydn.”

“I have heard his quartettos--he is no common artist. Is he in your service, count?”

“He has been employed by me.”

“With your good leave, he shall be transferred to ours; and I shall take care he has no reason to regret the change. Let him be presented to us.”

There was a murmur among the audience, and a movement, but the composer did not appear; and presently word was brought to his highness that the young man on whom he intended to confer so great an honor was detained at home by indisposition.

“So, let him be brought to me as soon as he recovers; he shall enter my service--I like his symphony vastly. Your pardon, count, for we will rob you of your best man.”

And the great prince, having decided the destiny of a greater than himself, turned to those who surrounded him to speak of other matters.

News of the change in his fortune was brought to Haydn by his friend Porpora; and so renovating was the effect of hope, that he was strong enough on the following day to pay his respects to his illustrious patron. Accompanied by a friend who offered to introduce him, Haydn drew near the dwelling of the prince, and was so fortunate as to find admittance. His highness was just preparing to ride, but would see the composer; and he was conducted through a splendid suite of rooms to the apartment where the proud head of the Esterhazys deigned to receive an almost nameless artist. What wonder that Haydn blushed and faltered as he approached this impersonation, as he felt it, of human grandeur?

The prince, in the splendid array suited to his rank, glanced somewhat carelessly at the low, slight figure that stood before him, and said, as he was presented--“Is this, then, the composer of the music I heard last night?”

“This is he--Joseph Haydn,” was the reply.

“So--a Moor, I should judge by his dark complexion.”[6]

The composer bowed in some embarrassment.

“And you write such music? You look not like it, by my faith! Haydn--I recollect the name; and I remember hearing, too, that you were not well paid for your labors, eh?”

“I have not been fortunate, your highness----”

“Why have you not applied to me before?”

“Your highness, I could not presume to think----”

“Eh? Well, you shall have no reason to complain in my service. My secretary shall fix your appointments; and name whatever else you desire. Understand me, for all of your profession find me liberal. Now then, sir Moor, you may go; and let it be your first care to provide yourself with a new coat, a wig and buckles, and heels to your shoes. I will have you respectable in appearance as well as in talents; so let me have no more of shabby professors. And do your best, my little duskey, to recruit in flesh--’twill add to the stature; and to relieve your olive with a shade of the ruddy. Such spindle masters would be a walking discredit to our larder, which is truly a spendthrift one.”

So saying, with a laugh, the haughty nobleman dismissed his new dependent. The artist chafed not at the imperious tone of patronage, for he felt not yet the superiority of his own vocation. It was the bondage-time of genius; the wings were not yet grown which were to bear his spirit up, when it brooded over a new world.

The life which Haydn led in the service of Prince Esterhazy, to which service he was permanently attached by Nicolas, the successor of Antoine, in the quality of chapel-master, was one so easy, that, says his biographer, it might have proved fatal to an artist more inclined to luxury and pleasure, or less devoted to his art and the love of glory. Now, for the first time relieved from care for the future, he was enabled to yield to the impulse of his genius, and create works worthy of the name--works not only pleasing to himself and his patron, but which gradually extended his fame over all the countries of Europe.

II

On the evening of a day in the beginning of April, 1809, all the lovers of art in Vienna were assembled in the theatre to witness the performance of the oratorio of the “Creation.” The entertainment had been given in honor of the composer of that noble work, the illustrious Haydn, by his numerous friends and admirers. He had been drawn from Gumpendorf--his retreat in the suburbs, the cottage surrounded by a little garden, which he had purchased after his retirement from the Esterhazy service, and where he had spent the last years of his life--to be present at this species of triumph. Three hundred musicians assisted at the performance. The audience rose en masse, and greeted with rapturous applause the white-haired man, who, led forward by the most distinguished nobles in the city, was conducted to the place of honor. There seated, with princesses at his right hand, beauty smiling upon him, the centre of a circle of nobility, the observed and admired of all, the object of the acclamations of thousands, who would not have said that Haydn had reached the summit of human greatness--had more than realized the proudest visions of his youth? His serene countenance, his clear eye, his air of dignified self-possession, showed that prosperity had not overcome him, but that amid the smiles of fortune he had not forgotten the true excellence of man.

“I can never hear this oratorio,” remarked one of his friends, whom we shall call Manuel, to another beside him, “without rejoicing for the author. None but a happy spirit could have conceived--only a pure, open, trustful, buoyant soul could have produced such a work. His, like the angels, is ever fresh and young.”

“I agree,” replied his friend, “in your judgment of the mind of Haydn. All the harmony and grace of nature, in her magnificent and beautiful forms, in her varied life, breathe in his music. But I like something deeper, even if it be gloomy. There is a hidden life, which the outward only represents; a deep voice, the echo of that which we hear. The poet, the musician, should interpret and reveal what the ordinary mind does not receive.”

“Beethoven’s symphonies, then, will please you better?”

“I acknowledge that I am more satisfied with them, or rather I am not satisfied, which is precisely what I want. The longings of a human soul are after the ineffable, the unfathomable; and to awaken those longings is the highest triumph of the artist. We are to be lifted above the joys of earth; out of this sunny atmosphere, where trees wave and birds fly, though we rise into a region of cloud and storm, chilly and dark and terrific.”

“You are more of a philosopher than I am,” returned Manuel, laughing. “You may find consolation for your clouds and storms in the thought that you are nearer heaven; but give me the genial warmth of a heart imbued with love of simple nature. I will relinquish your loftier ideal for the beauty and blessing of reality and the living present. For this reason is Haydn, with his free, bright, child-like, healthful spirit, bathing itself in enjoyment, so dear to me. I desire nothing when I hear his music; I feel no apprehension; I ask for no miracles. I drink in the bliss of actual life, and thank Heaven for its rich bestowments.”

“I thought our great composer, on the verge of life, would have looked beyond in his last works,” said the other, thoughtfully; “but I see plainly he will write no more.”

“He has done enough, and now we are ready for the farewell of Haydn.”

“The farewell?”

“Did you never hear the story? I have heard him tell it often myself. It concerns one of his most celebrated symphonies. The occasion was this:--Among the musicians attached to the service of Prince Esterhazy, were several who, during his sojourn upon his estates, were obliged to leave their wives at Vienna. At one time his highness prolonged his stay at the Esterhazy Castle considerably beyond the usual period. The disconsolate husbands entreated Haydn to become the interpreter of their wishes. Thus the idea came to him of composing a symphony in which each instrument ceased one after the other. He added, at the close of every part, the direction, ’here the light is extinguished.’ Each musician, in his turn, rose, put out his candle, rolled up his notes, and went away. This pantomime had the desired effect; the next morning the prince gave orders for their return to the capital.”

“An amiable thought; I have heard something of it before.”

“As a match story, he used to tell us of the origin of his Turkish or military symphony. You know the high appreciation he met with in his visits to England?”

“Where, he maintains, he acquired his continental fame--as we Germans could not pronounce on his claims till they had been admitted by the Londoners.”

“True; but notwithstanding the praise and homage he received, he could not prevent the enthusiastic audience from falling asleep during the performance of his compositions. It occurred to him to devise a kind of ingenious revenge. In this piece, while the current is gliding softly, and slumber beginning to steal over the senses of his auditors, a sudden and unexpected burst of martial music, tremendous as a thunder peal, startles the surprised sleepers into active attention. I should like to have seen the lethargic islanders, with their eyes and mouths thrown open by such an unlooked-for shock!”

Here a stop was suddenly put to the conversation by the commencement of the performance. “The Creation,” the first of Haydn’s oratorios, was regarded as his greatest work, and had often elicited the most heartfelt applause. Now that the aged and honored composer was present, probably for the last time to hear it, an emotion too deep for utterance seemed to pervade the vast audience. The feeling was too reverential to be expressed by the ordinary tokens of pleasure. It seemed as if every eye in the assembly was fixed on the calm, noble face of the venerated artist; as if every heart beat with love for him; as if all feared to break the spell of hushed and holy silence. Then came, like a succession of heavenly melodies, the music of the “Creation,” and the listeners felt as if transported back to the infancy of the world.

At the words, “_Let there be light, and there was light_,” when all the instruments were united in one full burst of gorgeous harmony, emotion seemed to shake the whole frame of the aged artist. His pale face crimsoned; his bosom heaved convulsively; he raised his eyes, streaming with tears, towards Heaven, and lifting upwards his trembling hands, exclaimed--his voice audible in the pause of the music--“Not unto me--not unto me--but unto Thy name be all the glory, O Lord!”

From this moment Haydn lost the calmness and serenity that had marked the expression of his countenance. The very depths of his heart had been stirred, and ill could his wasted strength sustain the tide of feeling. When the superb chorus at the close of the second part announced the completion of the work of creation, he could bear the excitement no longer. Assisted by the prince’s physician and several of his friends, he was carried from the theatre, pausing to give one last look of gratitude, expressed in his tearful eyes, to the orchestra who had so nobly executed his conception, and followed by the lengthened plaudits of the spectators, who felt that they were never to look upon his face again.

Some weeks after this occurrence, Manuel, who had sent to inquire after the health of his infirm old friend, received from him a card on which he had written, to notes of music, the words “_Meine kraft ist dahin_,” (my strength is gone.) Haydn was in the habit of sending about these cards, but his increased feebleness was evident in the handwriting of this; and Manuel lost no time in hastening to him. There, in his quiet cottage, around which rolled the thunders of war, terrifying others but not him, sat the venerable composer. His desk stood on one side, on the other his piano, and he looked as if he would never approach either again. But he smiled, and held out his hand to greet his friend.

“Many a time,” he murmured, “you have cheered my solitude, and now you come to see the old man die.”

“Speak not thus, my dear friend,” cried Manuel, grieved to the heart; “you will recover.”

“But not here,” answered Haydn, and pointed upwards.

He then made signs to one of his attendants to open the desk and reach him a roll of papers. From these he took one and gave it to his friend. It was inscribed in his own hand--“Catalogue of all my musical compositions, which I can remember, from my eighteenth year. Vienna, 4th December, 1805.” Manuel, as he read it, understood the mute pressure of his friend’s hand, and sighed deeply. That hand would never trace another note.

“Better thus,” said Haydn, softly, “than a lingering old age of care, disease, perhaps of poverty! No--I am happy. I have lived not in vain; I have accomplished my destiny; I have done good. I am ready for thy call, O Master!”

A long silence followed, for the aged man was wrapt in devotion. At length he asked to be supported to his piano; it was opened, and as his trembling fingers touched the keys, an expression of rapture kindled in his eyes. The music that answered to his touch seemed the music of inspiration. But it gradually faded away; the flush gave place to a deadly pallor; and while his fingers still rested on the keys, he sank back into the arms of his friend, and gently breathed out his parting spirit. It passed as in a happy strain of melody!

Prince Esterhazy did honor to the memory of his departed friend by the pageant of funeral ceremonies. His remains were transported to Eisenstadt, in Hungary, and placed in the Franciscan vault. The prince also purchased, at a high price, all his books and manuscripts, and the numerous medals he had obtained. But his fame belongs to the world; and in all hearts sensible to the music of truth and nature, is consecrated the memory of HAYDN.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] “Faustina Bordoni, born at Venice in 1700, was one of the most admirable singers Italy ever produced. She was a pupil of Gasparini, but adopted the modern method of Bernacchi, which she aided greatly to bring into popular use. She appeared on the stage at the age of sixteen; her success was so great that, at Florence, a medal was struck in her honor; and it was said that even gouty invalids would leave their beds to hear her performance. She was called to Vienna in 1724; two years afterwards she came to the London theatre with a salary of 50,000 francs. Everywhere she charmed by the freshness, clearness and sweetness of her voice, by the grace and perfection of her execution, so that she was called the modern siren. It was at London she met the celebrated Cuzzoni, who enjoyed a brilliant reputation; and the lovers of song were divided in their homage to the two rivals. Händel took part in these disputes. Faustina quitted England in 1728, and returned to Dresden, where she became the wife of Hasse.”--_Biog. Universelle._

[5] It is related of Porpora, who was a man of much wit as well as one of the first pianists of his age, that, in reply to certain monks who boasted of the music as well as the piety of their organist, he observed--“Ah yes, I see that this man fulfils to the letter the precept of the evangelist--he does not let his left hand know what his right hand doeth!”

[6] This interview, but little varied in the circumstances, is related by several of Haydn’s biographers.

FRIEDEMANN BACH.

It was on Sylvester night of the year 1736, that a man closely wrapped in his mantle, his hat drawn over his brows, was leaning against the wall of the castle at Dresden, looking upward at the illuminated windows of a mansion opposite. Music sounded within, and the burst of trumpet and the clash of kettledrum accompanied, ever and anon, the announcement of some popular toast. A moment of silence at length intervened, as if one of the guests were speaking aloud; till, suddenly, in a jovial shout, the name “Natalie” was uttered, and every voice and instrument joined in tumultuous applause.

The listener in the street turned to depart, but the next instant felt himself seized by the hand, and looking up, saw the royal page M. Scherbitz.

“_Bon soir--mon ami!_” cried the page, pressing cordially the hand he had taken. “I am right glad to have met you; I have sought you the whole evening, but never dreamed of finding you here. What are you doing?”

“Philosophizing!” answered the other, with something between a laugh and a sigh.

“_Bon!_” cried the page--“and just here, opposite the lord premier’s mansion, is the best occasion, I grant, but not exactly the best place for it. Besides it is terribly cold! You will have the goodness, _mon ami_, to come with me to Seconda’s cellar? We shall not fail there of some capital hot punch, and excellent company.” And taking his friend’s arm, he walked with him to a then celebrated Italian house of refreshment, on the corner of Castle Street and the old market.

Signor Seconda received his guests with many compliments, and officiously begged to know with what he should have the happiness and honor to serve milord, the page, and milord, the court organist. The page ordered hot punch, and passed, with his friend, into an inner apartment, which, to the surprize of both, they found quite empty.

“They will be here presently,” observed von Scherbitz. “Meantime, we will take our ease, and thaw ourselves a little. _Parbleu!_ there is no place on earth so delicious; and I thank fortune, so far as I am concerned, that I can spend the night here! _Eh bien!_ make yourself at home, friend.”

The other threw off his hat and cloak, and stood revealed a handsome man, of about five and twenty, of a figure tall, symmetrical, and bold in carriage, and a countenance whose paleness rendered more striking the effect of his regular, noble, and somewhat haughty features. About his finely chiselled mouth lurked something satirical whenever he spoke; there was a fierce brightness in his large dark eyes, which sometimes, however, gave place to a wild and melancholy expression, particularly when he fixed them on the ground, suffering the long lashes to shade them.

“You are very dull to-night, _mon ami_!” said the page, while he pressed his friend to a seat next him. “Has any thing happened? _Non?_ Well then, banish your ill humor, and be merry; for life, you know, is short at best.”

“Never fear,” replied his friend. “My resolution is taken, to live while I live, in this world. Yet have patience with me, that I cannot go all lengths with you at all times. You know I am but a two years’ disciple.”

“Pah! _one_ year sufficed to spread your fame in _music_ through Europe! Who knows not the name of Friedemann Bach? You have but one rival, the admirable Sebastian, your father!”

Friedemann colored deeply as he replied, “How durst I think of comparing myself with my father? If _my_ name is celebrated, whom have I to thank but my father? Beside him, I feel, with pride as well as pain, his greatness and my own insignificance. Ah! my love for him elevates me; his love crushes me to the dust, for I know myself unworthy of it!”

“Nay, you are too conscientious,” observed Scherbitz.

“Too conscientious!” repeated Friedemann, with a bitter smile.

“Yes!” returned Scherbitz, “I know not how otherwise to express it. What is the head and front of the matter? The old gentleman is, in certain respects, a little strict; _pourquoi?_ because he is old! you are young, impetuous; have your adventures, and your liberal views, and conceal them from him; not, mark me, out of apprehension, but because things he has no power to change, might cause him chagrin. _Enfin!_ where is the harm in all this?”

Friedemann was sitting with his head resting on his open palm. At the last question he sighed deeply, and seemed about to make a quick reply, but on a second thought, only said, passing his hand over his brow, “Let it alone, Scherbitz; it is as silly as useless to discuss certain matters. Enough, that I have strength, or if you will have it--perverseness, to enjoy life after my own heart. Let us be merry, for here comes the punch!”

Signor Seconda entered, followed by two attendants carrying the hot punch, with glasses; serving his guests at the round table in the midst of the apartment, and providing for the new comers, who entered one after another. These consisted of several officers, and some of the most distinguished musicians and painters then living in the capital.

“Said I not--_mon frère_?” whispered Scherbitz to his companion, “said I not, they would be here presently? See: Monsieur Hasse,” he said aloud, as he rose to greet a distinguished looking man, who just then came in. Hasse returned his salutation, and after a rapid glance round the company, seated himself at a distant corner table, and motioned to an attendant to take away the light just placed on it. The man obeyed, and set before him a cup and a flask of burgundy.

“The poor fellow,” observed Scherbitz, in a low tone to Friedemann, “dismisses the old year with an ‘Alas!’ and greets the new with an ‘Ah, me!’ _tout comme chez nous!_ If _he_ drink much to-night, ’tis all in honor of his fair Faustina. Well--” he lifted his glass, to drink with Friedemann.

“I am sorry for him,” replied Bach; “but why not separate himself from the wife no longer worthy his esteem and love? they say it is out of gratitude for her having taken care of him when an unknown youth; but this gratitude is weakness, and will be the destruction not only of the man, but of the artist. All his works show too well what is wanting in him--namely: strength. In everything he writes there is a softness, the offspring of deep, hidden sorrow. But not the grief of a man; it is, if not thoroughly womanish, the sorrow of a stripling!”

“Is it not on this account that he is the favorite composer in our world of fashion?”

“Very possibly; but I am sure he would give much not to be so on _this_ account!”

Their discourse was here interrupted; for many newly arrived guests took their places at the table. The glasses were rapidly emptied and replenished; the conversation became general, and assumed more and more of a jovial character.

An elegant groom of the chambers, whom a mischievous lieutenant of the guard had enticed thither, and introduced, before he was aware, into the midst of the company, occasioned infinite amusement among the guests, whose unbridled festivity he endeavored to awe by a mien of importance. His efforts, however, produced a contrary effect from that which he intended; and after he had joined the revellers in pledging a few toasts, he was himself the merriest of all. He laughed, he strode about--he clapped applause. Friedemann watched the scene with secret pleasure; it nourished the scorn which he, in common with others who stand ill with themselves, cherished for the whole human race. He could not refrain, now and then, from stealing a glance at the corner where Hasse sat, apparently indifferent to all that was passing about him.

“Apropos--sir groom!” cried Scherbitz, suddenly--“what was that admirable poem you had the pleasure of presenting to a famous _artiste_, a few days ago?”

The groom winked at him with a smile, pursed up his mouth, and said, “Monsieur Scherbitz, at your service--the poem runs in this way--

“On earth’s warm breast the pensile beams fall goldenly and bright--
The mountain gales, the merry flowers--are swelling with delight;
But nothing can such rapture yield unto this heart of mine,
As--Oh, Faustina Hasse, that radiant neck of thine!”

“Ah! _c’est bien dit, sur mon honneur!_” cried Scherbitz.

“Is it not?” returned the groom, self-complacently; “it is composed by our best poet, and I paid for it five august d’ors, besides a tun of stadt beer.”

“Here’s to the ‘radiant neck,’” cried one of the guests with a laugh. All joined in the toast, and the glasses clashed.

Hasse rose from his seat, and approaching the table, said, with a courtly bow--

“Messieurs! I commend myself to your remembrance, one and all! To-morrow early I leave Dresden, to return to Italy, perhaps for ever.”

The company were astonished. An officer asked--“How, Monsieur Hasse--you leave us? And your lady--?”

“Remains here,” interrupted Hasse, with a smile of bitterness. There was universal silence. Hasse, turning to Friedemann, and offering him his hand, said mildly, though earnestly--“Farewell, Bach! Present my adieus to your esteemed father, and tell him he may depend on hearing something good, one day, of the disciple of Scarlatti. May Heaven keep you from all evil!” He then, visibly affected, left the room.

Friedemann looked after him with much emotion, and murmured, “Poor wretch! and yet, would I not exchange with him? I might be the gainer!”

Peals of laughter interrupted him; they were occasioned by the comical groom, who, scarcely master of his wits, was going over the secret _chronique scandaleuse_, to the amusement of his auditors, relating the most surprising events, in all which he had been the hero, though few of them redounded to his honor. From these he went on to others; from the _chronique scandaleuse_ to the disputes of the artists; in all matters of gossip proving himself thoroughly at home, and, finally, as the crown of all his merits, avowing himself a devoted adherent of Voltaire, whose epoch had then just commenced. The chamberlain received a full tribute of applause; the clapping of hands, cries of “bravo!” and fresh toasts, attested the approbation of the spectators at his speech, not the less, that the speech was in part unintelligible. At length he fell back in his seat quite overcome, and was asleep in a few moments. This was just what his mischievous friends desired. They stripped him of his gay court dress, and put on a plain one; some wild young men then carried him out of the house, and delivered him into the custody of the watch, as a drunken fellow whom no one knew, to be taken to the great guard-house. The company then amused themselves with imagining the terror and despair of the poor groom, when, awakening on New-year’s morning, he should find himself in his new quarters.

The last hour of the old year struck, like a warning, amid the mirth and festivity of those guests; they heeded it not. Clamorous revelry filled up that awful interval between the departing and the coming time; revelry echoed the stroke of the first hour in the new year, mingled with the tumult of the storm that raged without; nor was the bacchanalian feast at an end till the morning broke, troubled and gloomy. The revellers then, one after another, reeled homewards; Friedemann Bach alone retained the steadiness of his gait, and his self-possession. The youthful vigor of his frame enabled him to withstand the effects of a night’s festivity; but the bitter contempt with which he had early learned to look upon the ordinary efforts and impulses of men, found sufficient to nourish its growth.

On the morning of the New year, Friedemann, pale and disturbed, was pacing up and down his chamber, when Scherbitz came in.

“The compliments of the season to you!” cried the ever merry page. “Health, contentment, fortune, and all imaginable blessings!”

“The blessing is here!” sighed Friedemann, handing his friend an open letter.

Scherbitz read it through, and said, with some appearance of emotion--“_Mon ami!_ your papa is a dear, charming old gentleman, whose whole heart is full of kindness for his Friedemann; every line of this letter expresses it. May he have a long and happy life! But I pray you, for the thousandth time, to recollect that it is quite impossible to satisfy, honestly, all the claims of such distinguished virtue of the olden time. Believe me, _mon ami_, the time will come when we, madcaps as we now are, shall be pointed out as wig-blocks that frown upon the disorderly behavior of our juniors. The wheel of time rolls on, and no mortal hand can check its course; it should suffice that we keep ourselves from falling, and being crushed in the dust beneath it.”

“Can we do that?”

“_Mon ami!_ Do I not stand, albeit I am a page forty years old? And look you, I know that I shall remain so, as long as I serve my lord faithfully. I might have opposed the all-powerful minister, and the country would have glorified me; yet I am a _page_, no captain, at forty years of age! I have been the talk of the capital, yet I stand firm!”

“And your consolation?”

“A knowledge that it has always gone thus in the world; that I am not the first whose life is a failure; that I shall not be the last; a perverse determination to live through a life which a thousand others would end in despair; in fine, curiosity to see what will be the end of the whole matter. Be reasonable, _mon ami_! I am really something of a hero! Were I an artist, as you are, I should have nobler consolations than perverseness and curiosity. Enough of my own insignificance; but let me ask you, have you forgotten the heroic Händel, whom, three years ago, you welcomed here in the name of your father?”

“How could I forget that noble being?”

“Ah, there I would have you, friend! You tell me yourself, Händel is not, as an artist, like your father; his fantasy is more powerful, his force more fully developed; he soars aloft, a mighty eagle, in the blaze of eternal light; while your father, a regal swan, sails majestically over the blue waters, and sings of the wonders of the deep. Well! we all know Monsieur Händel an honorable man--a man _comme il faut_; yet how different is he from your father! What the one, in limited circles, with calm and earnest thought, labors after, what he accomplishes in his silent activity--the other reaches amidst the tumult of a stormy life; amid a thousand strifes and victories. Yet your father honors and loves him, and blames him not for the path by which he travels towards the goal. It is also your path, and is not the worst that you might take. So--_en avant_--_mon ami_!”

“You forget,” said Friedemann, gloomily, “you forget that Händel, in all his wild and agitated life, never lost himself; and that his belief was such as he might acknowledge even to my inflexible father.”

“That I well remember, friend; and also that if Händel had been born in 1710, instead of 1687, he must have had more liberal views of certain things than he now has, if he thought it worth while to spend time upon matters of belief at all. He is a mighty musician; he lives and lets live; and credit me, did as others do, before he was your age; Faustina Hasse could tell you many pretty stories thereof, if she placed not so much stress upon outward demeanor.”

“He never played the hypocrite to his father!”

“Because it was not worthwhile to lie to the old dupe. And now, _mon ami_, do not flatter yourself you can mislead a page forty years old! To speak fairly and honestly, your self-reproach and your--_pour ainsi dire_--profligacy, have a cause very different from that you have chosen to assign. I tell you, between ourselves, there is another secret, whose discovery you dread far more than the unmasking of your petty hypocrisy.”

Friedemann reddened as he asked, “What do you mean, von Scherbitz?”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the page, “you need not look so gloomy because I have guessed the truth. _Non, non, cher ami._ If you really wish to keep your secret, you must govern your eyes better, when the name, ‘Natalie’ is uttered. Your last night’s behavior opposite the minister’s palace was not necessary to convince me that you have looked too deeply into the dark eyes of the little countess.”

The flush on Friedemann’s cheeks gave place to a deadly paleness; but mastering his emotions by a violent effort, he said, in a husky voice--

“You have discovered all; but you will be silent--will you not?”

“_O ma foi!_ said I not, _mon enfant_, that I only warned you to be cautious before others? I will be silent, as a matter of course, and so, no more of it. Farewell! I am going to the guard-house, to see the happy waking of our noble chamberlain! You go to church, to edify the faithful with your organ-playing; come afterwards to Seconda’s, where the groom shall give a splendid breakfast as his ransom. Courage! be not too philosophical! I hate the old Italian who made you so melancholy!”

The page departed, and Friedemann, having dressed himself, left his house to go to the church of Saint Sophia.

The service was at an end; the organ’s last tones died tremulously along the vast arches, like the sighs of a suppliant angel. All was still again, and the worshippers departed from the sanctuary. Friedemann, too, arose, closed the instrument, and descended from the choir, more composed, if not more cheerful, than he had gone there. Just as he was going out, he felt himself clasped in a pair of vigorous arms; and looking up, with a joyful cry of--“Ah, my father!” flung himself on the bosom of Sebastian Bach.

“God’s grace be with thee, on this New year’s morn,” cried Sebastian, clasping his son to his heart. “And my best blessing! Yea, a thousand, Friedemann! You made my heart leap, ere yet I saw you, with pure joy! Truly, you have bravely--_greatly_ acquitted yourself, in this morning’s work! Ay, you know, to make others skilful in our sacred art, was ever my pride; Heaven will not reckon with me for presumption, nor must you take it for such, when I say--that as you were always my dearest pupil, you have become my best! Now conduct me to your lodgings, Master court-organist; Philip is already there, and unpacking; for eight days I propose to tarry with my Friedemann. We have been long separated, and though you wrote me charming letters, that, as you know, between father and son, is not like discoursing face to face, with hand in hand!” So saying, he took Friedemann’s arm with affectionate pleasure, and walked with him towards his dwelling, talking all the while.

A new surprise awaited Friedemann there; for his younger brother, Philip Emanuel, in the three years that had flown since his departure from Leipzig, had grown a stately youth, and as his father testified, a ripe scholar in his art. He was a gay, light-hearted boy, “a little subtle upon the organ,” as his father observed with a smile, “and certainly more at home on the piano; but a true and pious spirit, that scorned disguise.”

Friedemann suppressed a sigh at the last remark of Sebastian, and gave his brother a heartfelt welcome. A servant in a rich livery interrupted the conversation. He presented a note to Friedemann, and said he was ordered to wait for an answer. Friedemann colored as he took the billet, opened it, glanced at the contents, and said briefly, “I will be there at the appointed hour.” The servant bowed and disappeared.

“Ha!” observed Sebastian, with a smile, “it seems our court-organist has to do with very distinguished people.”

“It was the livery of the Lord Premier,” said Philip.

Sebastian started, and asked, “Eh, Friedemann, is it so? A domestic of His Excellency, the Count von Bruhl, comes to your house?”

“He was sent,” replied Friedemann, with some embarrassment, “only by the niece of His Excellency, the Countess Natalie.”

“Eh? you are acquainted with the young lady, then?”

“She is my pupil. This billet instructs me to come to her this afternoon, to arrange a concert she wishes to give on her aunt’s birth-day.”

“Eh? how come you to such an honor? I thought those matters were under the jurisdiction of M. Hasse.”

“My dear father, as the young lady’s music-master, I cannot well decline commissions of the sort, especially as they here promote one’s reputation. With regard to M. Hasse, he departed hence early this morning; we shall no more have the pleasure of hearing new songs from him.”

“Hasse gone hence?” repeated Sebastian, with astonishment--“the excellent, amiable Hasse? Eh? where is he gone? Tell me, Friedemann!”

“It is a long story,” replied his son, with a meaning glance at his young brother.

The father understood the hint. “You may go till meal-time, Philip,” he said, “and amuse yourself by seeing the city.” Philip bowed obediently, gave his hand to his brother, and quitted the room. “Now, my son,” said Sebastian, “we are alone; what has happened to M. Hasse?”