“Commit thy ways, Oh, pilgrim,And yield thy sick heart’s sighsUnto the faithful caringOf Him who rules the skies!”
“Commit thy ways, Oh, pilgrim,And yield thy sick heart’s sighsUnto the faithful caringOf Him who rules the skies!”
“Commit thy ways, Oh, pilgrim,And yield thy sick heart’s sighsUnto the faithful caringOf Him who rules the skies!”
“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 costlynecklace 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. “Iwillknow!”
“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 Ihaveforgiven 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.