Chapter IV: Preface (4)

Friedemann gave him an account of Hasse’s departure--of his contemplated journey to Italy, and the well known cause of his disquiet and exile. Bach listened attentively. When his son had ended, he said, confidentially--“It was right that Philip should not hear such a tale--and that you suggested it to me to send him away. Hem! at court, indeed, all is not as it should be; there is much said in our Leipzig, as I could tell you, about it. Well, one must not listen to every thing; our most gracious Elector and sovereign means well with his subjects, and whoever is a faithful subject, will acknowledge that, and speak not of things which he who commits them has to answer for. We will say no more about it; you will go this afternoon to her gracious ladyship, and I warrant me, know how to demean yourself. I have cared enough, methinks, for your manners.” Friedemann pressed his father’s hand, and looked fondly on the good old man. “Tell me now, sir court-organist,” continued the elder Bach, “what you have been doing of late. You have sent me but little for a long while; I hope you have not been idle.”

“Surely not, my father! I have worked assiduously, but have done little that satisfied me; and what does not satisfy me, I would rather destroy, than venture before the world. In art, one should accomplish the best, or nothing at all.”

“No, no!” cried Sebastian, interrupting his son; “that would be, indeed, a hard condition for many; for the greatest number among those who earnestly and honestly devote themselves to art; who find therein, often, the only consolation and happiness of their lives. The chosen are few--the called are many! And trust me, Friedemann, the called are not held in less esteem for the sake of the chosen, if they prove themselves true laborers! Art is like love. We all bear and cherish love in our hearts, and whether the bosom is covered by a regal mantle, or by a beggar’s cloak, love, which dwells within, owns but _one_ home--Heaven. Could the highest and the best alone avail in art, how should we and our equals stand? I can do little, but my will is honest, and vast is my reward! Yes! I am, as regards earthly good, like the poor man in the Evangelist; yet I would not exchange with a monarch! I rejoice in humility over my success, great or small as it may be; and for the rest, I submit me to the will of God!”

“Oh, that all had your apprehension of Art, my dear father; that all would strive to practise it as you do!”

“You will, my boy!” said Sebastian, tenderly. “I find much that is excellent in your _Fughetten_. Be not too severe with yourself; and remember that the fresh, free impulses of a young heart are ever accordant with the dictates of justice and truth.”

“They are, indeed!” murmured Friedemann, gloomily.

His father continued--“Since we are permitted, my boy, to meet on this New-year’s morning, allow me to ask how it stands with you in other respects? Eh, Friedemann, will you not soon seek out a wife among the daughters of the land? I warrant me, the court-organist need not seek long, to find a comely and willing damsel. Eh? speak, boy!”

“Dear father! there is time enough!”

“Pah! pah! I was not as old as you are, when I espoused your mother; and by my faith! I would have married sooner, if I had had my place. So make haste, Friedemann! ‘Early wooed, has none rued!’”

“It is a serious step, father.”

“That is very certain, and I am sure you would not take it precipitately; but I pray you, dear son, do it speedily. How merry a grandfather I shall be! and if the child is a boy, he must be named after me; and I will teach him his first notes. Ay, ’tis very true, marriage is no child’s play. I can tell you, son, I have toiled unweariedly, oft oppressed with care, to furnish you, my boys and girls, with your daily bread. Yet, has not the Almighty blessed my labors? Have I not brought you all up happily, to be brave men, and skilful musicians? It is singular, Friedemann, that from my great grandfather down, all the sons of the Bach family have had taste and talent for music. Look you--as I wrote down my last fugue, I thought of my sons, and of you, particularly, and confessed myself happy! I used often to think I might write something, like the old masters, which, centuries hence, could edify and delight men--that they would love my memory. May I be forgiven if there was aught of worldly arrogance in the thought. Now, however, I have become less ambitious; but I have _one_ vision, in which my fancy will revel as long as I live! It is this--how rapturous will it be--when all the Bachs meet together in the Kingdom of Heaven, and unite in singing to the glory of God--their ‘hallelujahs’ resounding forever and ever in the presence of the Uncreate--who was, and is, and shall be! Friedemann! child of my heart! let me not miss you there!”

“Father!” cried the young man, and sank overpowered at Sebastian’s feet.

The elder Bach, unacquainted with the wo that struggled in his son’s breast, saw only in his agitation a burst of filial feeling. He laid both hands on the head of the kneeling youth, and said, devoutly, “God’s peace be with you, my Friedemann, now and ever, Amen!”

Friedemann arose, pale, but with a smile on his face. He kissed his father’s hand, and slowly withdrew from the apartment; but scarcely was the door closed behind him, than he rushed impetuously through the hall, down the steps, and through the streets to the open space, where he threw himself on the frozen earth, hid his burning forehead, and cursed aloud his miserable being.

After the lapse of an hour, having collected and composed himself, he returned to his father, and conversed with apparent cheerfulness. The elder Bach chatted at table with Philip, who was required to give him an account of all the magnificence he had seen in the capital. The splendor of Dresden had reached its utmost under the administration of the luxurious and prodigal Count von Bruhl; and no court, not even that of Vienna, rivalled the Polish Saxon in this respect.

After dinner, the father reminded his favorite that it was time to dress, so as to be in season at the minister’s palace; and Friedemann hastened to do so. With a beating heart, with feelings that partook both of pleasure and despair, he found himself at the palace. As he entered the hall, a side door was suddenly thrown open, and a small man, with striking features, and soft, clear blue eyes, richly dressed, with a blazing star on his breast, came forth: it was the minister himself. As Friedemann stopped and bowed to him, he advanced, speaking in the gentlest and blandest tone imaginable--

“_Ah! bon jour_, Monsieur Bach! Much happiness with the New year! My niece has sent for you? I am pleased to see you so punctual. I see, with satisfaction, you are attached to our house, and shall remember your zeal where it will do you good. I shall improve the first opportunity to convince you by deeds, of my good will. Now to the Countess!”

He nodded to the young man, smiled, and skipped out of the door and down the steps to his carriage, which soon drove away with him.

Young Bach looked after him, and murmured to himself, “Can he have guessed my secret? The smile of that man ever bodes disaster! Well, come what may, what can make me more wretched than I am? On, reprobate!” He crossed the hall, and passed through one of the galleries towards the apartment of the Countess Natalie.

“This way,” said the maid, who was waiting for him in the ante-room, and without further announcement, she opened the door of the cabinet, where Natalie, charmingly dressed, was reclining on a divan. Friedemann entered.

Natalie arose quickly, and stood a moment gazing earnestly on the visitor. She might have seen twenty summers; her figure was not tall, but perfectly symmetrical, and voluptuous in its rounded fulness; her head was beautiful, though not classical in its contour; a curved nose, and a pair of well defined, though delicately pencilled eyebrows, gave an expression of decision and pride to her countenance, while the exquisite, rosy mouth, and eyes shadowed by their long lashes, exhibited more the character of softness and tenderness. A profusion of dark hair floated unconfined over her neck, and relieved the outlines of her somewhat pale, but lovely face.

She stood still a moment before Friedemann, who cast down his eyes embarrassed; then approaching, she laid her small white hand lightly on his shoulder, and said, in a mild voice--“Tell me, Bach, what were you doing last night so late, opposite our house?”

Friedemann raised his dark, flashing eyes to hers, but dropped them the next instant. Natalie continued--“I saw you plainly, as I stepped a moment out on the balcony for a breath of fresh air--and I knew you at once. You were leaning against the castle wall; it seemed as if you were waiting for some one. Come--Bach, answer me!”

The young man struggled down his emotions, and after a pause, said coldly--“You sent for me, most gracious Countess, to honor me with your commands respecting the arrangement of a concert.”

Natalie turned her back pettishly, and cried in an angry and disappointed tone--“Thus--haughty man! you thank me, too weak of heart! for my trust--for my concessions! Out on ungrateful man!”

Friedemann’s pale face became crimson, and in a subdued voice, which had something in it absolutely terrific, from the deep sorrow and the wild passion it expressed, he replied--“What shall I--what can I say to you? Look at me, and enjoy your triumph! You have made me wretched--but I conjure you, let me have the only consolation that remains--the conviction that I alone am to bear the wrath and curse of offended heaven!”

“Friedemann!” cried the maiden, shocked, and she turned again to him, her eyes suffused with tears--“spare me; master this agitation, I entreat you!”

“I will _not_!” returned the young man, impetuously, “I will not spare you! you have yourself torn open, in cruel sport, the wounds of this heart! Look, how it bleeds! and yet, oh, fate, cannot cease to beat! I will not spare you! you are the only being on earth, to whom I dare unveil myself; I have purchased that right with my happiness here and hereafter; and this only, last right none shall tear from me! I gave you all! truth for falsehood--pure, undying love, for frivolous, heartless mockery!”

“I mocked you not!” protested Natalie, looking earnestly at him. “Believe me, I meant well.”

“With _me_? Did you love me?”

“Ask me not.”

“Natalie, answer! Did you love me?”

“How can it help, if I tell you I loved you? Are we not parted for ever?”

“No! by my soul! _no_! If you love me, nothing on earth shall part us! For the sake of your love, mark me--I would not spare even the heart of my father, though it should cost his life! But I must know--if you have loved--if you yet love me! If you have not, if you do not, I will ask--woman! wherefore did you tempt the free-hearted youth, who lived but for his art, with encouraging looks and flattering words? Wherefore did you give yourself--”

“Hold, unhappy man!”

“Wherefore?” repeated Friedemann, with a burst of passionate grief.

“I honored your mind--your genius--your heart.”

“And you loved me not?”

“You will madden me with these questions!”

“And you loved me _not_?”

“I could not see you suffer--I wished to restore your peace--to have you acquiesce--”

“All that you gave without love, I _despise_! If you do love me, how can you bear to think of becoming the wife of another?”

“Ah! you know well, my station--the will of my uncle--”

“And _my_ happiness, _my_ peace is nothing to you?”

“Why can you not be calm--happy, when you know that my affection is still yours--that I can never love another!”

Friedemann’s brow kindled, he stamped fiercely with his foot, and muttered--“Hypocrite, liar, coward! and all for the sake of a coquette!”

“Your passion makes you unjust and weak,” said Natalie, with displeasure. “I am no coquette. Is not the story of my education familiar to you? My parents died early; they were poor, but descended from one of the oldest families in the land; my proud uncle, whose nobility was younger, surrounded me with all the state and splendor his power could command. I will not indulge in self-commendation, for that I early perceived the worthlessness of all this magnificence; but it is _something_, that I yielded not to temptation, which, in the midst of pomp and luxury, approached me in a thousand enticing shapes. It is much; I dare commend myself therefor, and be proud; for I had no loving, careful mother, to teach me the lessons of virtue. I grew thus to womanhood, flattered by puppets, by venal slaves, by smiling fools; for I had not yet seen a _man_. I saw you--I _loved_ you. Must I excuse to you my too mighty love?”

“Ah! Natalie! what must I think? You love me, yet scorn to be my true and wedded wife! You love me, and will marry the creature of your uncle, whom you regard with indifference--with aversion? Must I never know what to make of you?”

“You must know that interest impels me not to this step, but a sense of duty.”

“Sense of duty?”

“Yes! and towards you. I feel that as your wife I could never make you happy--could never be happy myself. You are a great artist, can accomplish much; but you cannot rise beyond a certain sphere--and I--think you it would be so easy for a princely maiden to fulfil the duties of a quiet citizen’s wife? And were I willing to sacrifice all for you, where should we find a refuge from the pursuit of my incensed uncle? Nay--if we even found that, in some desert solitude, how long could the high-minded, ambitious artist endure this inglorious concealment?” Friedemann looked mournfully on the ground, and was silent; the lady continued,--“If I knew you discontented, could I be happy? Or you, if you saw my grief? I will do all for you that a woman in my circumstances can do for her beloved; my uncle’s minion can never obtain any portion of my heart. I will live for you alone! And you--live for your art and me!”

“And must I enjoy your affection as a dishonorable thief?” asked Friedemann, angrily.

“Our regard cannot remain concealed--yet, for your sake, I will bear the condemnation of the world!”

“And the world’s scorn? No--you shall _not_! The woman whom I love--for whom I am miserable--for whose sake I have deceived father, brother, friends--that woman shall none dare to scorn! Farewell, Natalie! we never meet again! Be what your future husband is not--be noble and true. And believe me, low as I am sunk, _all_ virtuous resolution has not yet left my heart! I must be unhappy, but no longer utterly wretched, for you shall _esteem_ me!”

“Friedemann!” cried the maiden, and threw herself weeping on his breast, “I honor, I admire you!”

Here the waiting maid entered hastily, and not without alarm, announced the minister’s approach.

“Recollect yourself!” whispered Natalie, as she disengaged herself from the arms of her lover.

The minister cried in a cordial tone as he entered--“Ha! Monsieur Bach, here still? I am delighted to see you again. Well, _ma chére nièce_!” turning to the blushing girl, “how goes it? Is all arranged for the concert--and will it suit?”

“I hope so, most gracious uncle!”

“That is charming, my love; my wife will be enchanted with this kind attention. You, my dear Monsieur Bach, will certainly arrange all for the best, of that I am assured. Come very often to my house! understand--very often! I place the highest value upon you and your talents.”

The young man thanked him, somewhat bewildered, and took his leave.

“A strong head, and great, great talent,” observed the minister, looking after him, while he took a pinch from his jewelled snuff-box. He said more in his praise, then passed to indifferent subjects, and at length retired from the apartment, after having pressed his lips to the white forehead of his niece, who dutifully kissed his hand.

As Friedemann left the palace, the page rushed hastily from round a corner to him, and asked--“Whither?”

“Home!”

“Not there. Come with me instantly to Faustina’s.”

“Are you mad?”

“More reasonable than yourself, _mein engel_! Out on the blindness that cannot see the trap the wary bird-catcher has laid for the bird!”

“What mean you? What is the matter?”

“_Sacre-bleu!_ Come to Faustina’s with me, or you are to-night on the road to Konigstein! The lord Minister knows all!” And he led him away.

* * * * *

Twilight had come on; Philip had called for lights, and placed himself beside his father, who, sitting at the table, was diligently perusing Friedemann’s last exercises and compositions, giving what he had read to his son, for the same purpose. At last, looking up, he asked--“Well, Philip, what think you of our Friedemann?”

“Ah, father,” replied the lad, “do not make sport of me! But indeed, I know not how to express what I think and feel. I am moved, rapt--I admire my brother. It seems to me often as if I were reading something of yours; and then all is again so strange to me--so different from yours--I feel troubled--I know not why. In short, I cannot feel undisturbed joy in these compositions.”

Sebastian looked grave and thoughtful for a moment, then turning with a smile to his son, he said--

“Yes, Philip, there is to me also something strange and paradoxical in Friedemann’s works; and this is more the case in his exercises and sketches, than in his finished pieces; yet I am not disturbed; yea, I deeply rejoice therein.”

“Rejoice?” repeated Philip, and looked doubtingly on his father; the latter continued--

“I know what you mean by this question; your own light, glad spirit accords not with the earnest, oft gloomy character displayed in Friedemann’s works. Heaven knows, he inherits not the gloomy from me, though I have always dealt earnestly with art. But, observe, Friedemann’s character is not yet fixed. All assures me there is something great in the man; but he is hardly yet determined how to develop it. He seeks the form, by which he shall represent what lives within him. I have examined closely and dispassionately; it is not a father’s partiality that leads me to speak as I do. Friedemann seeks for himself a new path to the goal. Will he succeed? I hope so, when I reflect that every strong spirit has sought and discovered a new path, winning what his predecessor would have given up as impossible. I know not if I deserve so high a degree of praise as has been accorded to me; but this I know, Philip, and acknowledge, that from her origin, Art has ever advanced, and still advances, and her temple is not yet completed. Will it ever be? I think _not_; for the perfect dwells not on earth; yet therefore is Art on earth so divine and eternal, that we may ever long for her fairest rewards, and strive after them with our best strength.”

“It is so,” said Philip, struck with his father’s remarks; “if one thinks he has accomplished something worthy, he soon finds there exists in his fantasy images far nobler and fairer, than with all his industry and taste he can produce.”

The conversation was interrupted by a stout knock at the door. The elder Bach answered by a “Come in!” the door opened, and two tall men entered, and inquired for the court-organist.

“I expect my son every moment,” answered Bach, and asked if the gentlemen had any message to leave. They replied that they were friends of the court-organist, and would wait for his coming. They seated themselves without farther ceremony; Sebastian also resumed his seat, and endeavored to introduce general conversation. But his politeness and his trouble were in vain; the two visitors only answered in monosyllables, and in a tone by no means encouraging, so that an awkward silence soon prevailed, and Sebastian, as well as Philip, wished, with all their hearts, for Friedemann’s arrival. Still Friedemann came not; but after the lapse of a quarter of an hour, the door was opened without a previous knock, and the page, von Scherbitz, entered.

“_Bon soir!_” cried he, in an indifferent tone, while he fixed a keen look on the two strangers, who rose from their seats as they perceived him.

“Whom have I the honor--” asked Sebastian, somewhat surprised at the unceremonious intrusion.

“Von Scherbitz,” replied he, “page in the service of His Highness, and a friend of your son Friedemann, if so be that you are the elder Bach.”

“I am,” returned Sebastian, smiling. “My son must be in soon; these gentlemen, also his friends, are waiting for him.”

“Friends?” repeated von Scherbitz, “friends of Friedemann! So, so!” He placed himself directly before the two men, who were visibly embarrassed, and looked down. The page stood awhile in silence; at length he said in a cold, ironical tone, “Messieurs! you are come too late, in spite of the haste with which his Excellency thought proper to send you, and indeed you are here quite unnecessarily. Go, messieurs! Carry your lord the compliments of the page, M. Scherbitz, and tell him the court-organist, Bach, is with the Signora Hasse; I myself took him there, informed the sovereign of my doing, as in duty bound, and have already obtained my pardon!”

The two men started up and left the apartment without answering a word; the page threw himself on a seat, and burst into loud laughter.

The elder Bach, who knew not what to make of the whole scene, stood in blank surprise in the middle of the room, looking inquiringly at Philip, who, with equally astonished and anxious looks, was gazing at the page.

At length von Scherbitz ceased laughing, arose, approached the old man, and said with earnestness and respect, “Pardon, Master Cantor, for my strange behavior. I will explain it to you; I have much to communicate, but to you alone. It concerns your son, Friedemann--”

“My son?”--“My brother?” cried Sebastian and Philip in the same breath. “Where is he?”

“As I told those men,” replied the page, “at the house of Signora Hasse.”

“And what does he there?” asked Sebastian.

“I must tell you alone.”

“Go, Philip, to your chamber,” said the father mildly; and as the boy lingered, he repeated with more earnestness--“Go!” With a look of anxiety the youth retired.

Sebastian, full of serious misgiving, seated himself, and said, “Now, M. Scherbitz, we are alone; what have you to tell me of my Friedemann, whose friend you are pleased to call yourself?”

“I am his friend!” said the page, not without feeling; “and that I am, I have not first proved to-day!”

“And those two men, who marched off so quickly, when you told them my son was at Madame Hasse’s?”

“Were in no way his friends--_tout au contraire, mon ami_! and on this account I wish to speak with you.”

“Speak, then, M. Scherbitz!”

Scherbitz seemed at a loss in what manner to communicate to Bach the information he could no longer keep from him. For the first time in his life, in the presence of that worthy old man, his bold levity deserted him. Sebastian sat opposite with folded hands, his clear and searching eyes fixed steadily upon him. Recollecting himself, at last he began--

“Your son, Friedemann, my good sir, has told me how different, even when a child, he always was from his brothers and sisters, in that, with an earnestness far beyond his years, he apprehended and retained whatever moved his fancy.”

“Yes, yes, it was so!” exclaimed Bach. “This peculiarity endeared the boy to me at first; but in later years it has made me anxious for him.”

“You have brought him up strictly, sir.”

“Very strictly, M. Scherbitz; in the fear of God, as is a parent’s duty! yet I have constrained him to nothing--and only when he was convinced, have I led him strictly to follow his conviction. He who discerns the truth and the right, and obeys it not, is either a fool or a knave; not a man!”

“Ah! my dear sir, may not an excess of strength lead a well meaning man out of the way; yea, even to his ruin?”

“That is possible; but he should reserve his strength to struggle, not weakly yield. He should either rouse himself, and atone for his faults, or perish like a man.”

“Heaven grant the first!” murmured the page.

“Do you fear the last?” asked Sebastian, quickly, and alarmed.

“No, M. Cantor; I trust Friedemann’s strength to rise again.”

“To rise again? Monsieur, tell me, in few words--what of my son?”

“Well, then! you have brought up your son as a man of honor; but you yourself, sir, are too little acquainted with the present ways of the world, to be able to shield him against the dangers that beset the path of youth, when, without a guide or counseller, he enters the great arena of life. Your son, till then, had known nothing of the world, beyond his paternal dwelling and your church of Saint Thomas. He was called to Dresden. He was received as the son--as the first disciple of the famous Sebastian Bach; and it was soon found that he was himself a master in his art. Esteem, admiration, were his; the great treated him with favor, his inferiors flattered him as the favorite of the great. Is it surprising that his head was somewhat turned, and that he forgot his place? Yet all would soon have been right again, when he learned to separate appearances from realities; but as ill luck would have it, the young Countess de Bruhl employed him as her music-master. In a word, your son loves her!”

“Is the boy mad?” cried Bach, angrily, and rising from his chair.

“Gently, papa!” interrupted the page; “if you knew the young Countess, you would confess, that for a young man like your son, it would be impossible not to love her; particularly as she was resolved to be loved; and in truth, she has excellently well managed it!”

Sebastian sank again on his seat, and his brow became clouded. The page continued--

“Friedemann struggled bravely against his passion, but the little Countess would not allow resistance--”

“Poor Friedemann!” sighed the father.

“When the first violence of his passion was over, he thought upon his father. He would have torn himself from his beloved--but could he? ought he? Everything was against their union. Was he to discover all to you, who had no misgiving? Disturb your peace, and that of your family? He resolved to bear all the anguish alone. The resolution was a noble one, but it made him so much the more wretched, since he, who so reverenced truth, had to dissemble with his father.”

“Cease, M. Scherbitz!” said Sebastian, in a low, mournful voice.

“I have little more to say, M. Cantor. Friedemann’s conscience gave him no peace day or night; and he suffered much from the fear of discovery. He fled to dissipation for relief. There were about him younger and older libertines. Thus I became acquainted with him; I, whose life has been an error! I would fain have aided him; but I saw then was not the time. His grief was too new; his passion reigned too fiercely in his breast; I looked to time for the cure, and sought only to keep him from too wild company. I was not always successful. Now, however, he has taken a wise step. He himself has broken off his connection with the Countess.”

“Heaven be praised!” cried Sebastian with joy; the page continued--

“First hear me out, M. Cantor; the minister has discovered their intimacy. He swears your son’s destruction--there I have baffled him; but I cannot prevent the necessity of Friedemann’s quitting this place.”

“It needs not!” said Sebastian, with quickness. “My poor son shall go hence; he needs comfort, and he can find it only with me!”

“He may come to you, then?” asked Scherbitz.

“What a question! Where is the father who can repel his unhappy child? And I know, sir, how unhappy my poor Friedemann must be; for I know, better than any other, his fiery soul! Bring him to me. I know he has ever loved his father; he must learn also to trust me with filial confidence!”

“My good sir!” cried Scherbitz with emotion, taking Sebastian’s hand, and pressing it to his bosom, “had I had such a father, I should have been something more than a page, in my fortieth year. Your Friedemann is saved!”

He left the apartment. Sebastian looked sadly after him, and murmured to himself, “Ah! you know not what is in my heart, and that I dare not speak the whole truth, if I would save my boy! My fairest dream is melted away--the dream I indulged, of finding in my first-born a friend, pure and true--such as I have sought my life long in vain! Oh! now I acknowledge, the truest friend, the purest joy, is Art! Without her, where should I find comfort? All thanks and praise to Him who has given the children of earth such a companion through their pilgrimage of life!”

He passed from the room into an adjoining dark one, where a small but excellent work of Silbermann’s was set up; he opened the piano, played a prelude, and began, with a full heart, the beautiful melody of an old song by Paul Gerhard, the first verse of which ran as follows:--

“Commit thy ways, Oh, pilgrim,
And yield thy sick heart’s sighs
Unto the faithful caring
Of Him who rules the skies!”

More steady, more powerful rose the harmony; it filled the apartment, and was heard even in the streets, where it brought peace and consolation to more than one sick heart, as the passers-by stopped to listen.

In a luxuriously decorated room, lighted by a splendid astral lamp, reclined on a rich ottoman Faustina Hasse, the most beautiful woman, and the greatest dramatic singer, not only of her own, but perhaps of all times.

She wore a simple white robe, of the finest material; a costly necklace of pearls was rivalled by the snow of her lovely neck; her lofty brow was somewhat paler than usual, and a touch of melancholy about her mouth softened the pride that generally ruled the expression of those exquisite features.

“Let him come in!” said she, carelessly, to the waiting-maid, who had just announced a visitor. The maid withdrew, and the minister, Count von Brühl, entered, with a low and courtly bow. Faustina replied by a slight inclination of her head, and without changing her own easy position, motioned him to a seat. The minister sat down, and began smilingly--

“My late visit surprises you, does it not, Signora?”

“I am not yet aware of its object.”

“Oh, that is plain! I am a good spouse, as is known; in fourteen days comes my consort’s birth-day, and I intend giving a fête, as handsome as my poor means will allow. But how will it surpass in splendor all other fêtes in the world, if Faustina Hasse will honor it with her presence! Will the Signora let me sue in vain?”

“I do not sing, my lord minister.”

“How have I deserved, Signora, that you should so misinterpret my well meant petition?”

“Will His Highness honor the feast with his presence?”

“He received graciously his most faithful servant’s petition, and was pleased to promise me.”

“Good--I will be there.”

“Divine Faustina! My gratitude is unbounded!”

He kissed her hand, and was about to retire. Faustina started up hastily, and cried with flashing eyes--

“Hold--a word!” The minister stood still. “Where is Friedemann Bach?” asked she.

The Count could not suppress a start of surprise, but he answered blandly--“This question, most honored lady, from you--”

“Where is Friedemann Bach?” repeated Faustina, with vehemence. “I _will_ know!”

“Well, then; he is probably on his way to Konigstein.”

Faustina smiled scornfully, and asked--“For what?”

“To save him from yet severer punishment. The whole parish is disgusted at the scandalous life their court-organist leads, who, if he edifies the devotional with his organ-playing on Sunday morning, celebrates the wildest orgies with his fellow rioters, at Seconda’s, on Sunday night!”

“And what is done with his fellow rioters?”

The Count von Brühl shrugged his shoulders, and replied dejectedly--“They are of the first families.”

“And therefore pass unpunished? Very fair, my lord minister! But you are mistaken; Bach is not on the road to Konigstein; he is here, in my house, and has seen His Highness.”

“How, Signora!” cried the Count, really shocked--“what have you done?”

“Silence--I command you!” said Faustina, haughtily. The minister was silent, and she continued--“His Highness knows all; knows why you pursue the unhappy youth, and would bring unspeakable misery on the whole family--and such a family! Heartless courtier! You cannot comprehend the worth of such a man. Friedemann must leave this city, but he goes freely, and must not be unprovided for. Give him another place, one worthy of his genius. That is His Highness’s will!”

She left the apartment. The minister stepped in much embarrassment to a window, looked out into the darkness, and drummed with his fingers upon the pane. When he turned round, he saw Friedemann and the page, who had entered the room. There was a storm in his breast, but he suppressed all signs of agitation, and walking up to the young man, said in a gentle, though earnest tone, “Monsieur Bach, it grieves me much that you must leave us so suddenly; but since that cannot be helped, we must yield to what is unavoidable. You will go as soon as possible to Merseburg; the place of organist in that cathedral is vacant, and I have appointed you to it. Adieu!” And he retired.

“_Bravissimo, mon comte!_” cried the page, laughing as he looked after him--“where is there a better actor? Roscius is a poor bungler to him! But now, _mon ami_”--he turned to Friedemann--“come with me to your father. Courage! he knows all.”

“All!” repeated the youth, and with a look of despair he followed his friend. They passed out into the open air. It was a clear winter’s night; the stars glittered in the deep blue firmament, recording in burning lines their hymn of praise to Infinite love; but in the heart of the young man dwelt hopeless anguish.

The pious melody Sebastian sang, was yet unfinished, when they arrived at the house. They entered. Philip, who saw them first, hastened to tell his father. Sebastian came into the room; as he approached his son, he said, “You come back to me--you are welcome!”

“Can you forgive me, father?” murmured Friedemann, fixing his looks gloomily on the ground.

“You have deeply sinned against your first, your truest friend; but I trust you will have ability to amend, and I _have_ forgiven you!”

“And without a word of reproach?”

“Your own conscience has suggested more than I could say; it is now my part to console you. Come with me to Leipzig, and if I alone cannot comfort you, why, the others shall help me!”

“No, by my life!” cried Friedemann, looking up boldly. “I pass not again the sacred threshold of my home, till I am worthy of you--or quite resigned to despair!”

“Is that your firm resolve?” asked Sebastian.

“It is, my father! Henceforward I will be true to you. I know not if I shall overcome this anguish, but I will struggle against it, for I have yet power! If victorious, more is won than lost! But if I am overcome--”

“Then come to my heart, Friedemann!”

“I will!”

Sebastian held out his hand to his son. Friedemann flung himself into his father’s arms.

The next morning they parted. Sebastian returned to Leipzig, and Friedemann prepared for his journey to Merseburg.

SEBASTIAN BACH.]

SEBASTIAN BACH.

“If the lessons were only over!” cried impatiently Lina, the youngest daughter of Sebastian Bach.

“They will soon be over,” said her mother; “it has already struck twelve.”

“Ah! what with the beating and blowing above there, my father often does not hear the hour strike. He is too zealous with his pupils.”

Madam Anna Bach smiled good humoredly at the impatience of her favorite, and replied--“Take care your father does not hear you talk so. He would interpret it ill. He regrets often enough, already, that his daughters have no gift for music, while his sons have been skilled on the piano and the organ from their earliest childhood.”

Lina fixed her beautiful hazel eyes earnestly on her mother, and said with some petulance--“Yet my father, if he would be just, must acknowledge that we three girls give him more pleasure than all his sons, skilful musicians as they are!”

“Silence!” said her mother, gravely. “It does not become you to boast of your father’s regard, nor to accuse your brothers. Go to your sisters, and to work.”

Lina obeyed; but when at the door she turned suddenly round, ran back to her mother, seized her hand, kissed it affectionately, and said--“Be friends with me, mamma! I meant no harm by what I said.”

“That I well know,” replied Madam Bach; “you are a good girl, but you have not the quiet manners of your other sisters. You are hasty and vehement, like the brother you resemble in outward features--whom you always blame, because he has grieved your father, and yet whom you love better than all the rest.”

“Friedemann!” cried Lina, and threw herself sobbing into her mother’s arms. Then recovering herself, with a “I will be good, mamma!” she left the apartment.

Madam Bach, after speaking a moment with her youngest son, Christian, was about to follow, when the door opened and her excellent husband, Johann Sebastian, entered. He was still a stately and handsome man, of steady carriage, and eyes that beamed with the brilliancy of youth; but thirteen years had considerably changed him; deep furrows were in the once open and smooth forehead; his cheeks were fallen in, and their color betrayed disease.

“Is your lesson over?” asked his wife.

Sebastian held out his hand affectionately, and answered--“Yes, for to-day.” He placed himself in his arm-chair, and Madam Bach continued--

“You are glad of it, for you seem to-day very much exhausted.”

“Ay; old age will have its claims satisfied, and rest does me good now and then; but glad--no! I am not glad that the hours are at an end, in which I must do my duty. I can impart instruction yet--I have strength to make good scholars, and so long as I can work, none shall find me remiss.”

“You will do much good yet!”

“That is in God’s hand, Anna! My will indeed is to do--you look so pleasant--what have you there?”

“A letter for you from Philip.”

“Ho, ho!” cried Sebastian, while he joyfully rose; “has the scapegrace at last found time to write to his old father? By my faith, I have doubted whether he has ever learned letter-writing, since he has been concert-master in the service of His Majesty of Prussia! Well--what says he?” and he opened the letter, and read--

“My dear and honored father--

“You will pardon your most dutiful son, that he has not written in so long a time to his beloved and honored parent, and will impute this neglect of duty by no means to any lack of filial affection, or of dutiful esteem, since it is solely and entirely owing to the pressing business of my situation. This magnificent capital is all life, as far as music is concerned. At court there is a great concert two or three times a week, without numbering the private entertainments, which His Majesty has every evening in his cabinet, where I accompany him on the pretty Silbermann’s piano, on which my beloved father played before His Majesty.

“His Majesty plays on the flute quite surprisingly; and I think his tone fuller and better than Herr Quantz can produce. But, as respects time, I am obliged to give good heed to keep with him, for His Majesty is capricious, and troubles himself little with the notes--going forward and backward and stopping at his own will and pleasure. This is pleasant enough when he plays alone, but in concerts occasions much confusion.

“His Majesty has always been very well pleased with my accompaniment; and after every piece we have executed together, His Majesty has been pleased to say--‘You have done this well.’

“His Majesty always inquires in a friendly manner after my esteemed father, and often asks me--‘Will not your papa come once more to Berlin?’ This I would propose, with proper discretion; and I can promise beforehand, if my dear and esteemed father will visit us, he will be received with joy and honors by all. Be pleased to pardon my hasty writing; convey my best love and duty to my most honored mother, my beloved brothers and sisters, and make happy with a speedy answer

“Your dutiful son,
“PHILIP EMANUEL BACH.

“_Berlin, July 18th, 1750._”

Sebastian folded the letter again, and said, with a good humored smile--“His _hasty_ writing I must indeed pardon for this once; for he has never written to me otherwise.”

“What think you of his proposition to visit Berlin once again?” asked Madam Bach. “The journey, I think, would do you good.”

“It would indeed!” replied Sebastian, cheerfully. “I would gladly see Berlin and His Majesty once more! Ay! twice in my life have I been wrought to believe there was something good in me; the first time was in the year seventeen, when Monsieur Marchand took himself quietly off, the evening before our appointed contest, so that I held the field alone in Dresden--ha! ha! ha! The second time, was three years ago, when the great King of Prussia came into the ante-chamber to meet me and give me welcome; and when some rude chamberlains began to laugh at my expressions of duty and homage, His Majesty chid them with ‘_Messieurs! voyez vous, c’est le vieux Bach!_’ That pleased me wonderfully, and Friedemann, too!”

“You will go, then?”

“Yes--if they will give me leave here--and there be a small overplus of money in the purse, I should be glad. It is strange that in my old days, I should be seized with a roving propensity, of which I had little or nothing when I was young. Enough for this time; let us go to dinner.”

* * * * *

The day was near its close, and Sebastian sat before the door of his dwelling, by the side of his wife, and surrounded by his family; his two eldest sons only, Friedemann and Philip, were wanting. The mother and daughters were employed in sewing and knitting work, and whispered now and then to each other. The sons listened to what the elder Bach was telling them of his youthful studies, particularly under the century-old organist, Reinecken, in Hamburg.

The setting sun threw his last rays upon the quiet group under the green and stately linden which shaded the entrance to the old Thomas school. A picture was presented, which in its true keeping might have inspired the genius of the greatest painter of that day.

In the midst of Sebastian’s story, Caroline, who had been looking towards the corner where Cloister street runs into Thomas’ church-yard, sprang to her feet with a cry of surprise.

“What is the matter?” asked her mother, alarmed: while the others all rose, leaving the venerable father alone sitting on the bench. Before the maiden could answer, the tall figure of a man was seen hastily crossing the church-yard towards the house, and now Sebastian rose too, for he recognized his son Friedemann.

“_Salve!_” cried the old man. “Do you come to stay?”

“I have kept my word!” answered Friedemann, “and if you think right, I will stay!”

Sebastian, nodding a pleased assent, held out his hands to his son, and embraced him with transport. His mother and the rest crowded round him, all but Caroline, who stood in her place, looking inquiringly at her brother. After he had returned the greeting of his family, he turned and addressed her. Then her eyes sparkling, her lovely face suffused with the flush of joy, she cried--

“I also bid you welcome!”

After the first surprise was over, Sebastian led his son into his chamber, and with gentle earnestness repeated his question.

“Come as you will, you are welcome;” said he: “yet what brings you here so suddenly?”

“That it is not the old story, my father,” replied Friedemann, “you will believe upon my assurance. Ah! thirteen years are enough to blunt one sorrow--the more certainly, the greater it is! But a thousand new ones are born to me, and one among them yields not in bitterness to the first!”

“And what is that, Friedemann?”

“I despair of ever doing anything truly great in my art! I have only pride, not power, to support me against daily vexations. I have purposed well--true! I have purposed well. I wished to strike out a new path, without neglecting the excellent old school. I might err--ay! I _have_ erred! the result proves it; but the motive of my exertions was pure; what I strove after was great and noble. But I have been slandered--insulted! my aim ridiculed--my endeavors themselves maliciously criticised--decried!--”

“And by whom, Friedemann?”

Friedemann started at this question; at length he said--“I am wrong, I know, to permit the judgment, or rather the silly prating of a malignant fool to destroy the pleasure arising from my exertions; and yet it is so. There is a certain schoolmaster Kniff in Halle, who, though all he accomplishes himself is contemptible, yet passes for a luminary in the musical horizon; I think they call his works reviews.”

“Ay,” cried Sebastian, “I know them to be ridiculous. I think the schoolmaster must be the cause of some sport in Halle.”

“You are mistaken, father,” replied Friedemann. “He is not derided, but feared on account of his malice; and those who fear him not, are pleased at the base libels by which he strives to bring down others to his own level.”

“And can that disturb you?” asked Sebastian, “notwithstanding your knowledge that only the base and the evil array themselves against the good? Methinks I have ever taught you, there is no more certain proof of elevated worth, than the impotent rage and opposition of the vicious. I never taught you to look with pride or arrogance on your equals or inferiors, but to be calm, self-possessed, and to maintain your ground, even against the great, much more against the rich! That is man’s first duty; practise it, Friedemann, and no schoolmaster Kniff, or any one else, can make you dissatisfied with yourself or your efforts.”

Caroline here interrupted the conversation, announcing a stranger, who wished to speak with her father.

“Who is it?” asked Sebastian.

“He will not tell his name, but says he is a friend of yours.”

“Bring him in, then,” answered the old man, and Caroline left the chamber.

“_Bon soir!_” cried the stranger, as he entered, in a sharp voice, while he hastened towards Sebastian, and held out his hand; “_bon soir, mon cher papa!_ Do you not know me?”

Sebastian could not immediately recollect the face. Friedemann recognized him at once, and said--

“Ah! Monsieur Scherbitz! good evening.”

“Ha! ha!” cried Scherbitz, laughing, “is not this our ex-court-organist? Exactly! there is the same ill-boding frown between the brows as in 1737. You are but little changed, my friend, with being thirteen years older. I am still the same, except that at fifty-three I am grown to be First Lieutenant.”

“You proved yourself a friend to my son in time of misfortune,” said Sebastian, “and are therefore ever welcome to me and mine. To what lucky chance am I indebted for the pleasure of welcoming you in my quiet home?”

“To the most unlucky, my good sir! I was so careless, at the Prime Minister’s last court, as to tread on the left fore-paw of his lady-consort’s lap-dog. The beast cried out; the Countess demanded satisfaction; and in punishment for my misdeed I am marched as first lieutenant to Poland, in the body-guard of his Excellency.”

Friedemann laughed. Sebastian, who felt a horror creep over him at his sarcastic, misanthropic wit, sought to change the conversation, but in vain; Scherbitz went on jesting in his bitter way about his tragical destiny. He concluded his account with the information--that he had come over to Leipzig simply and solely to see Papa Bach once more in his life, for, on the word of a first lieutenant, he had ever loved and honored him since the first time he beheld him, thirteen years ago.

The next morning, von Scherbitz was walking in the little garden behind Thomas school, which afforded but a narrow view, being bounded by the high wall on one side, when he saw at the other end Caroline, occupied in fastening the branches of a vine to an espalier. He approached and saluted the young lady; she turned and replied with the same cordiality.

“You are very early at work, Mademoiselle Bach,” said Scherbitz, after a pause, during which she was arranging her vines.

“My father takes great pleasure in cultivating vines,” answered Caroline.

“Do they flourish here?”

“Oh, yes! sometimes.”

“I heard some charming singing, early this morning; it was a woman’s voice. Faustina never sang clearer! Were you the singer, Mademoiselle Bach?”

Caroline blushed, and said--“Not I--it was my mother.”

“Your mamma! _C’est vrai!_ Friedemann told me she sings admirably. But you sing too, mademoiselle?”

“I hum a little, sometimes, like all girls when they are cheerful--but none of my father’s daughters are musical--and he says we have neither taste nor talent to learn it properly.”

“Perhaps you understand it by intuition, already.”

Caroline looked at the lieutenant, and replied with a smile--“you are a good guesser, M. Scherbitz.”

“No great guessing is required; there are many young ladies, who do not sing or play according to rules, yet who, nevertheless, are by no means unmusical.”

“Oh! I love music--I love it dearly! Brother Friedemann knows that--and it is therefore we are so dear to each other. But it is a very peculiar kind of music that I mean.”

“You mean church music?”

“No!”

“Or concert music?”

“Nor that.”

“Or dancing music?”

“No--no!”

“_Eh bien!_ then you are fond of the Opera?”

“Not I--indeed!”

“What sort of music then will you have?”

Caroline laughed, but immediately after replied with a gentle sigh--“The music that I mean is not to be had here in Leipzig.”

“What does that mean? Leipzig is the musical capital of all Europe!”

“Yes--it is very strange--but quite true! I find little or nothing of it here, admirably as my father, my brothers and their scholars execute their parts. Something is still wanting.”

“Mademoiselle Bach, you must have studied in Professor Gottsched’s college, since you are not satisfied even with your father and your brothers!”

“Ah! you must understand me!” cried Caroline, eagerly. “If I would enjoy my music in perfection, all around me must harmonize, and that is not possible here. But in a wood, surrounded by high mountains, the summits glowing in the morning or evening light, while it is yet twilight below; or when only a ray here and there streams down upon the foliage; while above, in the deep blue heaven, clouds are moving, white, rosy and golden--that is a charming accord. And the tops of the trees waving and whispering--the bushes answering in sighs--the brook singing its constant, yet ever new melody--the flowers moving like magic bells--the wild bird trilling his song! And when the sun is set, and the moon climbs the rocky verge and pours her soft silvery light on the scene,--or when dark clouds gather in the heavens, and hissing lightnings dart through them, and echo reverberates the thunder, and the swollen stream roars, and foams over the rocks and the crushed trees--all is to me, music!”

Scherbitz looked a moment in astonishment at the young lady, then answered--“Mademoiselle, it is possible you are not a singer, but you are a _poet_!” And he left her, to communicate his discovery to his friend.

Friedemann, with a bitter smile, replied--“It is as you say, von Scherbitz, and that it is so, is reason enough to drive me mad, if there were none other! I love this child, as my own soul. I have seen her grow up, and ripen into bloom--I shall see her die--for the fairest gifts of heaven are only lent to poor unhappy man, that their loss may add to his misery.”