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!oneyear sufficed to spread your fame inmusicthrough 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? Ifmyname 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 toFriedemann, “dismisses the old year with an ‘Alas!’ and greets the new with an ‘Ah, me!’tout comme chez nous!Ifhedrink 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 onthisaccount!”
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 famousartiste, 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!”
“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!”
“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!”
“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 thecomical groom, who, scarcely master of his wits, was going over the secretchronique 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 thechronique scandaleuseto 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 apage, 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 mancomme 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,” criedSebastian, 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—greatlyacquitted 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?”
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 nomore 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 butonehome—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 yourFughetten. 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, tomeet 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 haveonevision, 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 castlewall; 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 willnot!” 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.”
“Withme? 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 menot?”
“I could not see you suffer—I wished to restore your peace—to have you acquiesce—”
“All that you gave without love, Idespise! 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—”
“Andmyhappiness,mypeace 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 issomething, 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 aman. I saw you—Ilovedyou. 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 shallnot! The woman whom I love—for whom I am miserable—for whose sake I have deceived father, brother, friends—that woman shall none dare toscorn! 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,allvirtuous resolution has not yet left my heart! I must be unhappy, but no longer utterly wretched, for you shallesteemme!”
“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 theblindness 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 shallrepresent 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 thinknot; 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! Bringhim 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:—