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.”
“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—“Hishastywriting 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 MonsieurMarchand 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 manwas 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! Ihaveerred! 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 sillyprating 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 awoman’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 ProfessorGottsched’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 apoet!” 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.”
“True, and false,mon ami! as we take it. Do you know in what lies your fault and mine? We philosophize too much! Do not laugh;parole d’honneur—I speak in earnest! It is true, each of us in his way; we should have done better by acting, instead of thinking so deeply; instead of mocking at, and saying all possible evil of this miserable world—we should have acted. Not the will, but action, removes mountains. There lies a paradox inthe truth that the greatest thinker, when it comes to the deed, can do absolutely nothing; a paradox, but it manifests at the same time the wisdom of the Creator; for wo to the system of the world, if the mightiest thoughts and designs were deeds! Satan, who revolted, cannot be dangerous to heaven. Man, whom the Maker created after his own image, could, if he possessed the power to do what he imagines in the moments of his exstacy—”
“Cease, von Scherbitz!” cried Friedemann; “I see the abyss before me!”
“Va!we are safe,cher ami! for as I said, we are but philosophers. Had not the minister played the spy on you and his pretty niece, had not I, malheureusement, stepped upon the foot of the Countess’ lap dog, we should be perhaps at this moment both sitting quietly in Dresden—you as Natalie’s fireside friend, bewitching her, yourself, and the world—I, as a merry page of fifty-three, jesting and enduring—and,morbleu!am I not enduring even now?”
“Do you know,” asked Friedemann, and as he spoke his countenance assumed a strange expression—“do you know I have often fervently prayed that I might be mad—for a time—not for ever!” in a quick and vehement tone—“no, no! for all the world not for ever! but for a time I would be mad, that I might forget; and again, I feel the memory of what I have experienced would even then cling to me.” He pressed his hand with a wild gesture before his eyes.
The lieutenant started, and said, soothingly—“Give not so much heed to my idle talk, my friend! I amold, melancholy—have no hope of a brighter future; but you, you are young, can yet do much—so much—”
“What can I do?” cried Friedemann, with harrowing laughter. “Nothing—nothing—nothing! With me at five and thirty, all is dead! All—more than with you at fifty! Ha! mark you not, wheremadnesslurks yonder, behind the door, and makes ready to spring upon my neck, as I go out? He dares not seize on me when my father is near; but shrinks up, till he islittle, very little, then hides himself in an old spider’s web over the window. But he shall not get hold of me so easily! ha, ha, ha! I am cunning! I will not leave the chamber without my father! Look you, old page, I understand a feint as well as you!”
“Mon ami! mon ami!whatisthe matter?” cried the lieutenant, and seizing his friend by the shoulders, he shook him vehemently. “Friedemann Bach, do you not hear me?”
Friedemann stared at him vacantly a moment. At length his face lost its unnatural expression, his eyes looked like living eyes again, and he asked softly—“What would M. Scherbitz?”
“What would I? man! what makes you such an idiot? Recollect yourself.”
“Eh!” said Friedemann, smiling; “Eh, M. Scherbitz, who takes a jest so deeply? And you really believe, that I am sometimes mad? Ah! not yet; I am rational, more rational than ever!”
“Well, well!mon ami, it was your jest, but one should not paint Satan on the wall. Pry’thee, sit you down, and play me something, that I may recover myself; you acted your part so naturally.”
Friedemann sat down in silence to the instrument and began to play.
“I dreamt not of this!” muttered the lieutenant, while Friedemann, after having played half an hour, suddenly let his hands drop down, sank back, and fell fast asleep.
On the morning of the 21st July, 1750, the church-bells rang a solemn, yet cheerful peal, inviting the pious inhabitants of the city to the house of God. The sky was perfectly cloudless; the glad Sabbath sun shone brightly, and the pious heart felt strengthened anew in faith and devotion. Into Friedemann’s heart also this day penetrated a beam of comfort, of joy, of love. He had spent a part of the preceding night in studying a masterpiece of his father’s—the great Passions Music. Full of the grandeur of the work, his face animated with serene delight, he was walking to andfro in the chamber of the old man, pondering in his mind a similar work, which he had thought of undertaking.
Sebastian sat in his arm-chair, with folded arms, dressed ready for church, and followed with his eyes, smiling affectionately, the movements of his son. After a while he said—
“I am glad the Passions Music pleases you so well; I have a work of quite another kind finished, the first idea of which I got from yourFughetten. And you are the first after me that shall see it.”
He went to his desk, opened it, took out a sealed packet and gave it to his son. It bore the inscription—“To my son Friedemann.”
“In case I had died without seeing you again,” observed the old man. “I am rejoiced it has happened otherwise; you may break the seal.”
Friedemann did so, and on opening the package, his eyes fell on that nobly conceived, that admirably executed work, which, from the day of its first appearance to the latest time, has commanded the admiration and reverence of all the initiated—“The Art of Fugues, by Johann Sebastian Bach.”
Friedemann looked over the manuscript with sparkling eyes, and said—“Then I have not lived in vain!mypoor attempt has suggested a work which, or I must be deceived, is destined to immortalize the name of its author! Receive my thanks, father; you have given memuchto-day!”
“I know, Friedemann, you at least appreciate and honor my design; so that I receive much from you. Such appreciation is most gratifying to us from those we love, and is the highest reward earth can bestow.”
“And you, father, have understood me?”
“Yes—grieve not over the judgment of others; yet while you endeavor to deserve the appreciation, the regard of your equals, labor to instruct those who cannot repay you thus. Will man assume more than higher powers—and only show to the best, that he belongs to the best! Are you skilful and faithful, let your lightshine, else you degrade yourself and rebel against the Being who gave you power and inclination to be so.”
Here the chime of the bells, which had ceased for some time, began anew; the door opened, and Madame Bach, her three daughters, the boy Christian, and von Scherbitz, entered, all ready for church. Madame Bach gave her husband a prayer-book and a bunch of flowers; Caroline handed him his hat.
Sebastian rose, gave his arm to his wife, and walked to the door, accompanied by his children and his friend. Turning back an instant, he glanced at the window shaded with vine-leaves, on which the sunlight glistened, and said—
“What a lovely morning!”
He was about quitting the room, when he stopped suddenly! prayer-book and flowers fell from his hands: the females shrieked; he struggled to regain his strength a moment, then sank back lifeless into the arms of his son.
Thus died Johann Sebastian Bach, by a stroke of apoplexy, the 21st of July, 1750.
Three years after, Baron von Globig was celebrating the feast of the vintage at his splendid villa at Loschwitz, some distance from Dresden. Richly gilded gondolas, with long and many colored pennants, were gliding to and fro over the bosom of the Elbe, landing the distinguished guests invited by the proprietor of the villa. The splendor, nay, profusion, that marked all the preparations, was not unworthy of the favorite and confidant of the Count von Brühl. Nothing was wanting which the most refined and fastidious taste could suggest.
The host fatigued himself by exuberant efforts to do the honors suitably; this appeared the more singular, as no one took particular notice of him; all observation being directed to his lady, who, though dignified and courteous in her demeanor, manifested little interest in anything that passed.
As twilight came on, colored lamps were lighted in the gardenwalks, and gorgeous illuminations were displayed before the entrance. Bands of musicians alternated with each other, and joined in full bursts of harmony; brilliant and stately figures whirled through the merry mazes of the dance; all was hilarity and joy, and care was banished.
When the company reassembled in the saloon, the Prussian ambassador presented to the lady of the house a young but distinguished-looking man, as Philip Emanuel, the second son of the great Sebastian Bach.
The Baroness blushed slightly, and after a few words of salutation had passed, asked—“Where is your elder brother, now?”
“We do not know,” replied Philip, sadly; “Friedemann disappeared from Leipzig the day of our father’s death, and none of us have seen him since.”
The Baroness turned away without speaking again. The Baron came up and said in his bland tone—“Will you have the kindness, most honored sir, to let us hear before supper a little, if but a little piece from you? My guests will be delighted to listen to the celebrated Monsieur Bach; and to enhance the effect of your divine playing, I have, by way of fun, permitted a poor half crazy musician from the Prague choir, who plays dances in the villages, to give us a tune in the ante-chamber. The doors may be opened, but he must not come into the light, for his dress is soiled and disordered.”
Meanwhile a full accord sounded from the ante-room; a servant threw open the doors, and in the imperfect light the guests had a glimpse of a meanly dressed man, sitting at the piano, with his back turned towards the door.
The company had anticipated a joke, for the Baron had privately informed every body of his purpose: but it was quite otherwise, when they had heard the wonderful, entrancing harmony, now towering into passion, now sinking to a melodious plaint, which the poor unknown musician drew from the instrument. All were touched; but the Baroness and Philip stood, pale as death, and looked inquiringly, yet doubtingly, upon eachother. Suddenly, at a bold turn in the music, the Baroness whispered—“’Tis he!”—and Philip cried aloud—“’Tis he! ’tis my brother—Friedemann!”
The musician turned round, sprang up, and rushed into Philip’s arms. But at sight of the Baroness, he started back with the exclamation—“Natalie!”
The Baroness fell back in a swoon. Friedemann, forcing himself a way through the crowd, rushed from the house.