Chapter VIII: Avowals (14)

The merry company was again convulsed with the sallies of the intoxicated chamberlain; and loud applause, cries of "bravo!" and toast after toast urged him on. When he fell back, helplessly drunk, the young men pulled off his court dress, put on a dark one, carried him out, and gave him to the watch as a drunken vagabond to be taken to the guard-house. Then they laughed to think of his consternation at finding himself in the cold cell, on New Year's morning.

Midnight struck in the midst of this boisterous revelry; the last hour of the dying year. There was a wild storm without, and clamorous shouting and singing within. The revellers reeled homeward; young Bach, the only one whose gait was steady, though he had drunk as deeply and as madly as the rest.

When he rose on the following morning, he saw a letter on his table, in a well-known hand, which he quietly opened and read with deep emotion. Then he began to pace up and down the room, till the door was abruptly opened and Scherbitz came in, wishing him the compliments of the season. He read the letter Friedemann handed him in silence.

"A charming old gentleman is that good papa of yours," he said as he gave it back. "His heart is full of kindness. May his life be long and happy! But look not so woe-begone, _mon ami_! How is it possible for you to satisfy the claims of such exalted, old-fashioned virtue? The time will come when we, madcaps as we are, shall be pointed out as models of propriety for our juniors. Let the wheel of time roll on."

"To crush us in the dust!" moaned Friedemann.

"Look at me--a page forty years old! I have no fear of reverse as long as I serve my lord faithfully. I might have stood up heroically against the all-powerful minister, and I should have been hailed as one of her deliverers by my country; but I kept my place and pension, and remain a page in comfortable quarters."

"You are not the first whose life is a failure."

"Nor shall I be the last. Why should I despair? Come, be reasonable, _mon ami_! you are too self-condemnatory. Have you forgotten Handel, whom you welcomed here three years since?"

"How could I forget him?"

"Yet Handel is unlike your father. His fantasy is more powerful, his force more developed; he soars like an eagle, while Sebastian Bach sails over the calm waters like a majestic swan. Bach's activity is calm, silent--the offspring of concentrated thought. Handel reaches his aim amid storm and tumult--through strife to victory. Can you blame him for the difference? His path is your own. _En avant, mon ami!_"

"Handel has had, indeed, a restless and stormy life," replied Friedemann; "but he has never lost himself."

"Had he been born in the present century, instead of the last, his views might have been more liberal. Before he was of your age, he did as others do. Faustina Hasse could tell you some wild tales--"

"He never played the hypocrite to his father!" said Friedemann bitterly.

"It was not worth while. Now, my good fellow, do not flatter yourself you can deceive a page forty years old. Your so-called profligacy and keen self-reproach have another cause than that you choose to assign. You dread the unmasking of what you term your hypocrisy less than the discovery of another secret!"

Friedemann started to his feet, and his face glowed like fire. The page laughed.

"You must govern your eyes better, _mon ami_, if you want to keep your secret when you hear the name of 'Natalie.' I did not need to witness your behavior last night opposite the minister's palace, to show me the truth!"

Friedemann was now pale as death. With a violent effort he mastered his feelings, and said,

"You will be silent, will you not?"

"As the grave--assuredly! Only be cautious before others. No more! I am going to the guard-house to release the victim chamberlain. Now go to church, and afterward come to Seconda's to breakfast. _Au revoir!_" And Scherbitz went out.

Friedemann Bach had been organist of the church of St. Sophia since the elector, at the solicitation of his father that he would befriend his boy, had given him the appointment. He hurried to his post, and splendidly performed his part in the imposing service. As the last tones of the organ died along the vast arches, he arose, closed the instrument, and descended from the choir. At the door a pair of vigorous arms were flung around him, and, with a joyful cry, he embraced his father.

The old man pronounced a solemn blessing as he pressed his son to his heart, and warmly praised his morning's work. He had entered the church alone, to enjoy the music of his dearest pupil, whom he now declared his best.

"To your lodgings now, Master Court-organist!" he cried. "Philip is there, and unpacking. We shall stay a week with you." He took his son's arm, and walked on, talking pleasantly all the time.

Philip Emmanuel Bach had grown a stately youth and a ripe scholar in his art since Friedemann had left the paternal home at Leipzig, three years before. They chatted of the old times, when their mother in her snowy cap and apron smiled on their boyish sport; when they roasted apples on the stove of Dutch tiles, and their young sisters chid them, and the little Christopher laughed at them from his mother's lap. Philip had been lonely at school, and was delighted at these reminiscences. The two sons sympathized with the triumph of the good Sebastian when he told them again of his first summons to Dresden, of the note that had come to him from the Minister von Bruhl, on the part of the Elector Augustus of Saxony and Poland: an invitation to play at the church in Dresden. The rector in Leipzig had opposed the departure of the organist of St. Thomas's school; but the elector's own carriage stood at Bach's door to fetch him, and he saw future good for both his sons. He felt that through them the lovers of Hasse should hear music more sublime than the voluptuous melodies of Italy. Then the reception at Dresden; the entrance of the elector into the choir to greet Bach; his words, "O master! if I might hear you play thus at the hour of my death"--all the scene was lived over by the grateful old man. Philip, then a stripling, remembered how a beautiful lady--the famous Faustina Hasse--had rushed in, and, weeping, had kissed his father's hand; Hasse's greeting too, he remembered; and the elector's bidding to ask any favor at his hands.

These recollections and the conversation were interrupted by the entrance of a servant in a rich livery, who presented a note to Friedemann. The young man blushed as he took the note, which he opened and read hastily.

"I will come," he said to the servant, "at the hour named."

The man withdrew.

Sebastian smiled.

"Our court-organist," he said, "appears to have distinguished acquaintances."

"The livery was the lord premier's," remarked Philip.

"Indeed!" asked Sebastian. "You know his excellency, my son?"

"The note came from his niece, the Countess Natalie," answered Friedemann, in a confusion which he could not conceal.

"And you visit the young countess?"

"She is my pupil in music. She has sent for me to arrange a concert, which she is to give on her aunt's birthday."

"I thought M. Hasse managed all those matters."

"I can't well avoid the commission; and such things help one's reputation," faltered the young man. "As to M. Hasse, he has left Dresden."

"Hasse gone--the excellent Hasse!" exclaimed Sebastian.

The good, pious composer was grieved to hear of his unhappiness. Then, changing the subject, he began innocently to advise his son as to the polished manners necessary in the house of the premier. Friedemann pressed his hand and thanked his unsuspecting monitor.

When the elder Bach asked what he had done lately in music, Friedemann replied that what he had done did not satisfy him. His father put aside his plea that the highest and best could alone avail in art.

"We have not reached that," he said; "yet we can rejoice in the success granted us. There is much that I like in your _Fughetten_."

From music he passed to other questions; and asked, smiling, how long the court-organist meant to remain unmarried.

"Dear father, I need not be in haste."

"'Early wooed has naught rued.'"

"It is a serious step, father."

"Surely, and not to be taken precipitately; but, dear son, let it not be long. If my first grandchild is a boy, I will teach him music. Ay, marriage is a serious matter! I have toiled hard to give bread to my boys and girls, and brought you all up--have I not?--to be good men and skilful artists. From my great-grandfather, all the Bachs have had musical talent. I was once ambitious, my boy, to write something that might win enduring fame. Now, I have but one wish. It is--that all the Bachs may meet in the kingdom of heaven, and join in singing to the glory of God, among the hallelujahs of the angels! Friedemann, child of my heart, let me not miss you there!"

With a sob of anguish, Friedemann sank at his father's feet. Sebastian laid both hands on his head, saying devoutly,

"God's peace be with you, my son, now and for ever!"

Unable to control his agitation--which his pious father thought a burst of filial emotion--Friedemann left the room. Closing the door softly, he rushed through the hall, out of the house, and through the streets to the open country, where he flung himself on the frozen earth and wept aloud.

At dinner the father conversed with his two sons, and much was said of the splendors of the Polish-Saxon court under the administration of the luxurious and prodigal Count von Bruhl. It was then time for Friedemann to go to the minister's palace. He changed his dress and hastened there.

As he passed into the hall, the door of one of the side-rooms opened, and the premier came out. He was a small man, with marked and expressive features, and keen, clear blue eyes. He was sumptuously dressed, and wore a star on his breast. Friedemann stopped and bowed to him.

"Good day, M. Bach, and a happy new year!" said the minister in bland, soft tones. "My niece has sent for you. I am pleased with your promptness. I am grateful for your readiness to meet our wishes at all times, and shall remember it. The countess expects you!"

He nodded, smiled graciously, and walked lightly out of the front door, entering his carriage, which presently drove away.

Friedemann looked after him apprehensively.

"What does this mean?" he murmured. "The smile of that man ever bodes disaster. Let it be so! What can make me more miserable than I am?"

Crossing the hall, he passed on through one of the galleries.

A female servant stood at the door of the ante-room of the countess's cabinet. She opened the door of the inner room, and Bach entered.

A young girl of about twenty, in a costume coquettishly pretty, reclined on a sofa. Her form and her face were both beautiful; a nose slightly aquiline, and well-defined eye-brows, gave her features a character of pride and decision, contradicted by the soft tenderness of the full, rosy lips, and the languishing, violet eyes, shaded by their long lashes. Her hair floated in golden curls over her neck. A faint rose-tint came to her pale cheeks as she rose to receive Friedemann.

The young man stood still, and did not raise his eyes. The countess came nearer, laid her little white hand on his shoulder, and said, almost tenderly,

"What were you doing, Bach, opposite our house last night?"

One glance Friedemann darted from his flashing eyes into her own, but made no other answer.

"I saw you plainly," said Natalie, "as I stepped out on the balcony. You were leaning against the castle wall. Were you waiting for any one? Tell me."

The young man shivered with the violent emotion that shook his whole frame. After a pause, he said with forced calmness,

"You sent for me, most gracious countess, to honor me with your commands respecting the arrangement of a concert."

The countess turned angrily away.

"These are my thanks, proud man, for my trust, for my love. Out upon ingratitude!" she cried.

The young man flushed crimson at these reproachful words.

"What can I say?" he answered in a deep, hoarse voice, full of the wild agony he was vainly striving to repress. "Look at me, and enjoy your triumph! You have made me wretched. Leave me the only consolation that remains--the conviction that I suffer alone!"

"Friedemann," said the countess, shocked to see him thus, "compose yourself, I entreat you! Spare me!"

"I will _not_ spare you!" burst forth Friedemann, unable longer to master his agitation. "You have torn open my bleeding heart-wounds in cruel sport! I will not spare you! I have bought the right to speak with my happiness here and hereafter. I gave you all, Natalie--truth for falsehood, pure, faithful love for frivolous, heartless mockery!"

"I did not mock you!" cried Natalie.

"Did you love me, then?"

"I can not answer that."

"Tell me, Natalie--did you love me?"

"What good can it do? Are we not parted for ever?"

"No; by my soul, _no_! Nothing shall part us if you love me! But, I must be convinced of that. If you have not--if you do not--I ask you, why did you tempt the free-hearted youth, who lived but for his art, with encouraging looks and flattering words?"

"Be silent!" cried the girl.

Friedemann's burst of grief was convulsive, and he covered his face with his hands.

At length Natalie said,

"I honored your genius--your heart--"

"You loved me not then, and you do not love me now. If you love me, how can you bear to think of becoming the wife of another?"

"Alas! you know; my station, the will of my uncle--"

"_My_ happiness, _my_ peace is nothing to you?"

"My affection is still yours. I shall never love another. Will not that content you?"

Friedemann's pale face crimsoned; he stamped his foot fiercely.

"Hypocrite! liar! coward that I am," he cried; "and all for a coquette!"

Natalie protested against his injustice. She reminded him of her history: her noble birth and orphaned condition; the state and splendor with which her uncle had surrounded her; her scorn of mere pomp and luxury; her isolation in the midst of flatterers and smiling fools; her discernment of the manhood in him--her lover.

"Then be my wife, Natalie!"

She shook her head.

"You will not? You will marry the creature of your uncle, whom you regard with aversion?"

"You know, Friedemann, I do not take this step from interest, but a sense of duty."

"Duty! Toward whom?"

"Yourself! I could never be happy, nor make you happy, as your wife. You are a great artist; but you can never rise to my sphere. And should I sacrifice all for you, would not my incensed uncle pursue us with his vengeance? If we found shelter in solitude, how long would you or I bear this concealment?"

Friedemann grew pale, and looked down.

"We could not be happy," resumed the countess. "All I can do is to keep my heart for you. You can live for your art and me."

"And love you in secret?" asked the young man bitterly.

"I would bear condemnation for your sake."

"You shall _not_! The woman for whose sake I am miserable, for whom I have deceived father, brother, friends, shall never know the world's scorn. Farewell, Natalie! We never meet again. Be unlike your future husband--be noble and true. Crushed as I am, you shall yet esteem me, knowing that all virtuous resolution has not left my heart!"

"O Friedemann! how I honor and admire you," exclaimed the weeping girl, as she flung her arms around his neck.

The maid entered quickly, announcing the minister.

Natalie retreated to the sofa.

"Ha! M. Bach," said the count, as he came in. "I am delighted to see you again."

"Is it all arranged about the concert, my dear niece?"

"I hope so, uncle," answered Natalie.

"Charming, charming! Madame von Bruhl will be enchanted, M. Bach. You will certainly arrange all for the best. Come very often to visit us; very often. I assure you, my highest esteem is yours."

Friedemann, somewhat bewildered, bowed his thanks, and took leave. The minister looked after him, while he took a pinch from his jewelled snuff-box.

"He has great, very great talent," he said musingly; and added other praises. Then he chatted a little on other subjects, and, looking at his watch, touched the white forehead of his niece with his lips, suffered her to kiss his hand, and retired from the room.

Friedemann left the house with confused thoughts. Suddenly M. Scherbitz ran round the corner, and seized his hand.

"I am going home," said young Bach.

"You are not! Come instantly with me to Faustina Hasse's."

"Are you mad?"

"Not so near it as yourself, _mon ami_! The blind bird will not see the trap."

"What do you mean?"

"_Sacré bleu!_ Come to Faustina's with me, or you are to-night on the road to Königstein. The lord minister knows all!"

* * * * *

All that afternoon Sebastian had spent in reading the latest exercises and compositions of his son Friedemann, handing sheet after sheet, when he had read it, to Philip. They called for lights as dusk came on. At length Sebastian asked his younger son what he thought of his brother.

Philip knew not what to answer.

"I admire Friedemann," he said. "His works move me. I seem at times to be reading your music, father; then comes something strange and different. I feel disturbed--I can not tell why. I like these compositions; but they give me not untroubled pleasure."

"You are right, Philip," said Sebastian, with a grave and thoughtful smile. "His works have something in them strange and paradoxical. I find this in his sketches more than in his elaborate compositions. But I am not disturbed thereby: I rejoice."

Philip looked surprised.

"Your own light, glad spirit, Philip, accords not with the earnest, oft gloomy character of Friedemann's works. He is not yet settled. There is something great in him, hardly yet developed; the form of expression is not defined. Friedemann seeks a new path to the goal. Every strong spirit has done so. Art ever advances, and her temple is not yet finished. The perfect dwells not on earth."

Philip suggested that his brother's imagination, supplying nobler images than his industry had produced, still soared beyond the reach of practical achievement, and thus left him unsatisfied.

There was a loud knock at the door; two men entered, asked for the court-organist, and, hearing that he was expected every moment, sat down to wait for him. Sebastian tried to enter into conversation with them; but their gruff monosyllables repelled him, and an awkward silence ensued. In about fifteen minutes the door was opened unceremoniously, and M. von Scherbitz entered. He saluted the elder Bach and looked keenly at the two strangers. He then announced his name to the astonished Sebastian, and said he was Friedemann's friend.

"He will soon return," said the father; "these gentlemen, also his friends, are waiting for him."

"Friends!" echoed the page; and placing himself in front of the two men, he gazed at them searchingly. After a while he said,

"Messieurs, his excellency has lost no time in sending you, I perceive; but you are too late. Give the lord minister the compliments of the page, M. von Scherbitz, and tell him he will find the court-organist, M. Bach, at the house of Signora Hasse. I have just had the honor of leaving him there. He will see the elector."

The two men started up without speaking, and hastily left the room. The page threw himself into a chair and laughed long and loudly. The father and son stood in blank surprise, not knowing what to make of the scene.

At last Scherbitz recovered his composure. He addressed Sebastian, and said he had something to communicate to him in private.

"But where is Friedemann?" asked both father and son.

"As I said, at the house of Signora Hasse."

"What does he there?" asked the father.

"That is what I came to tell you."

Philip was sent out of the room. Sebastian seated himself, and with dignity inquired what the gentleman who called himself Friedemann's friend had to communicate.

"I am his friend," replied the page, "and have proved it not for the first time to-day."

"And those two strangers--"

"Were officers sent to arrest him."

The page went on to tell his story, the bold levity of his manner somewhat subdued before the dignity of the excellent old man, who sat with his clear, searching eyes fastened upon him. He began with a preamble about the strict manner in which Sebastian had brought up his sons, and the difference between Friedemann and his brothers. "You are too innocent of knowing the world," he continued, "to be able to shield him against all the dangers that beset the path of youth. Till he came to Dresden, your son knew nothing of life beyond the paternal dwelling and the church of St. Thomas. He has been received here as the son of an illustrious artist; he has won a proud distinction for himself. Can you wonder that applause and flattery have turned his head a little? He might have got over that; but, as ill-luck would have it, the Countess Von Bruhl employed him as her music-master. He fell in love with her."

"Is the boy mad?" exclaimed Bach, rising from his chair.

"Friedemann's first thought afterward was of his father. His union with the girl he loved was impossible; equally so his voluntary separation from her society. Her uncle bade her receive a rich and noble suitor. Compelled to give up hope, the victim of the wildest remorse and anguish, Friedemann fled to dissipation for relief. I strove in vain to help him; but his grief was too new, too fierce and consuming; I looked to time only for the cure. In wild company only could he find diversion from maddening thoughts, and I feared the worst if that resource were denied him. Now he has taken a prudent step. He has broken off his acquaintance with the countess."

"Heaven be praised!" cried the father clasping his hands.

"But her uncle, the minister, had discovered their intimacy. He has sworn the destruction of your son. I have been fortunate enough to baffle him. But Friedemann must instantly leave Dresden."

"He shall!" cried Sebastian. "My poor son needs comfort; he can find it only at home."

"Then he may come to you?"

"Could a father repel his unhappy child? I know, alas! his fiery soul, his need of sympathy. Bring him to his loving father's arms."

Scherbitz caught the old man's hand and warmly pressed it.

"Friedemann is saved!" he exclaimed.

He left the room and the house, promising soon to return. Sebastian sat long in a mournful reverie. Then seating himself at the piano, he played a soft prelude, and sang a beautiful melody by Paul Gerhard. The music swelled into majestic harmony, and many a passer-by in the street stopped to listen, drinking in peace and consolation from the heavenly sounds.

* * * * *

Faustina Hasse, the most beautiful woman in Dresden, and the greatest dramatic singer not only of her own, but perhaps of all times, was reclining on a sofa in a luxuriously-furnished room in her palace. Flowers stood on a table beside her, and several costly trifles were thrown about; but she was simply dressed in white muslin, with a necklace and bracelets of pearls. Her little foot in its satin slipper beat impatiently the footstool on which it rested; there was a tint of painful excitement on her cheek; and a touch of melancholy about her mouth softened the pride that usually masked her lovely features.

A waiting-maid had just presented the card of a visitor on a silver plate.

"I will see him," was the careless answer.

The maid retired and ushered in the Count von Bruhl, who made a low and courtly obeisance. The signora bent her head slightly, and motioned the count to a seat.

"You are surprised at a visit so late in the evening, signora?" the minister asked gently, after an embarrassed silence.

"I do not know its object," was her calm reply.

"Easily explained," with a bland smile. "I am known for a fond husband; in a fortnight I shall give a _fête_ for my wife's birthday. It will surpass all other _fêtes_ in splendor, if the Signora Hasse will favor it with her presence. May I hope that she will do so?"

"I do not sing, my lord minister."

"The signora has misunderstood my humble petition. Even the elector, whose admiration of the signora's genius is well known, would not venture to solicit such a favor."

"Will his highness be there?"

"He promised to honor me."

"I will come."

"Signora, my gratitude is unbounded!" He raised her hand to his lips, and retired with a low bow.

Faustina sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing fire.

"Stop, monsieur!" she cried.

The minister stood still.

"Where is Friedemann Bach?" demanded the lady.

The minister started visibly, but suppressed all sign of emotion. With a courtly smile he endeavored to evade reply.

"Where is Friedemann Bach?" still more angrily asked Faustina.

Something in her face warned the count not to trifle with her.

"He is probably on his way to Königstein," answered the premier.

"For what offence?" asked the lady with a smile of scorn.

"Oh! he needs discipline. The whole parish is disgusted at the scandalous life led by their court-organist. He edifies the devotional with his organ-playing on Sunday morning; but joins his fellow-rioters in the wildest orgies at Seconda's, on Sunday night."

"What have you done with his fellow-rioters?"

"They belong to high families," answered the count with a significant shrug.

"And pass uncensured. Very fair, my lord minister! But you are mistaken. Bach is not on the road to Königstein. He has just had an interview with his highness, here, in my house. I am known to have some influence with the elector; and have used it."

"What have you done, signora?" exclaimed the minister, shocked into a real expression of his feelings.

"Silence!" said Faustina haughtily. "His highness knows all; knows why you have persecuted the unhappy youth, why you would bring misery on the whole family--such a family! Heartless courtier! What can you know of the worth of such a man? Friedemann leaves Dresden; but you must provide him with another place, and one worthy of his genius. The elector wills it so."

She passed out of the room. The count walked to the window, looked out into the dark night, and drummed on the pane in some embarrassment. There was a storm in his breast, but it was necessary to suppress all agitation. Presently he turned around, and saw Friedemann Bach and the page, Von Scherbitz, standing in the room. The minister walked toward them, and said in a gentle tone,

"Monsieur Bach, I am concerned that you must leave us; but it is necessary. 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. I wish you a pleasant journey."

And with a bow he retired.

"_Bravissimo, mon comte!_" cried the page, laughing heartily. "Roscius was a bungling actor to him. Come now, _mon ami_," turning to Friedemann--"to your father. He knows all."

Friedemann followed him out with a look of despair. It was a clear, starry winter night. As they came to Bach's house, they heard the hymn Sebastian was singing. As they entered the room, he rose and bade his son welcome.

"Can you forgive me, father?" murmured Friedemann gloomily.

"I have forgiven you; for I trust in your ability to amend."

"No word of reproach?"

"Your conscience does that; my part is to comfort you. Come home to Leipzig."

"No," said Friedemann resolutely; "I will not go home till I am again worthy to be received there."

"Are you so resolved?"

"My life henceforward shall show that I am true to you, father. I will strive to overcome the anguish and remorse that have wrecked me. If I succeed, all will be well. If I fail in the struggle--"

"Then come to my heart, Friedemann!"

"I will."

The son threw himself into his father's arms.

The next morning Sebastian and Philip returned to Leipzig, while Friedemann set out on his journey to Merseburg.

PART SECOND.

Madam Anna Bach, the wife of Sebastian, was at home in Leipzig with her daughters and her youngest son, Christian, waiting for the father to join them after he had dismissed his pupils for the day. Thirteen years had elapsed since the occurrences related.

Johann Sebastian Bach came in presently. He was still a stately and handsome man, bright-eyed, and steady in his carriage; but the once smooth forehead was furrowed with care; his cheeks had fallen in, and their livid hue betrayed internal disease.

He held out his hand to his wife, as he placed himself in his arm-chair.

"You seem exhausted to-day," Madame Bach remarked. "I am glad the lessons are over."

Sebastian smiled.

"I have strength left," he said, "to make good scholars; and so long as I can work, none shall find me remiss. You look so pleased; what have you there?"

"A letter for you, from Philip."

"Ho! ho!" cried Sebastian joyfully; "has the scapegrace at last found time to write to his old father? I have sometimes thought he has forgotten how to write since he has been concert-master in the service of his Majesty of Prussia! Well, what says he?" And he opened and read the letter.

It was a dutiful but rather stiff epistle from a young man unused to literary composition. He described life in Berlin, and the concerts given at court two or three times a week, with the private musical entertainments the king had in his cabinet, where Philip Emmanuel accompanied on the piano his majesty's performance on the flute. The king, he wrote, played the flute surprisingly; but was capricious as to time, following the notes less than his own will and pleasure.

"He always," the letter concluded, "inquires after my esteemed father; and often says, 'Will not your papa come once more to Berlin?' I can promise that 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 me happy with a speedy answer.

"Your dutiful son,

"PHILIP EMMANUEL BACH."

As Sebastian refolded the letter, his wife asked what he thought of another visit to Berlin.

"It would do me good," said Sebastian. "I would gladly see the king once more. Twice in my life have I believed there was something good in me: the first time was in the year 1717, when my contest was appointed with M. Marchand, and he took himself quietly off the evening before it; the second time was three years ago, when the great King of Prussia came into the antechamber to welcome me, and when some rude chamberlains laughed at my expressions of duty and homage, his majesty chid them with, '_Messieurs, voyez vous, c'est le vieux Bach_.' That pleased Friedemann so much!"

"Then you will go to Berlin?"

"If I can get leave of absence, and if I find a small overplus of money in the purse. Strange, that in my old days I should be seized with a roving propensity! I had nothing of it in youth. Well, let us go in to dinner."

It was near the close of day, and Sebastian sat outside the door of his dwelling, surrounded by his family, under the stately lindens that shaded the avenue leading to the old Thomas's school. The mother and her daughters were occupied in needlework and knitting; the younger sons were listening to their father's anecdotes of the old organist, Reinecken, his instructor in Hamburg. The setting sun shone on a lovely picture.

Caroline, who had her eyes turned toward the corner of Cloister street and Thomas's churchyard, suddenly uttered a cry of joy, and sprang to her feet.

The others rose and asked what was the matter; the venerable father alone kept his seat. A tall figure was seen crossing the churchyard; and now Sebastian rose, for he recognized his son Friedemann.

"Father," cried Friedemann, "I have come to stay with you!"

The father stretched out his arms and warmly embraced his son. The others crowded round him, bidding him a joyous welcome. Nearly an hour passed in the delightful confusion of such a reunion.

Later in the evening, Sebastian was alone with his son, and asked what had brought him home so suddenly.

Friedemann had overmastered the sorrow that had crushed his spirit thirteen years before. But a thousand difficulties were in his way, and the struggle preyed on his mind. He began to despair of ever doing any thing truly great in art. He had wished to strike out a new path; the motive of his efforts was pure, and he did not design to neglect the excellent old school.

"But I have been slandered, insulted!" he exclaimed bitterly. "My aim has been ridiculed, my endeavors have been maliciously criticised, my merits decried."

"By whom, Friedemann?"

Friedemann colored as he answered, "I know I am wrong to be disturbed by the malignity of a shallow fool; but I cannot help it. There is a critic in Halle, one schoolmaster Kniffe, who passes for a luminary in the musical horizon, and writes reviews."

"I have seen them; they are absurd," said Sebastian. "He must cause some sport in Halle."

"On the contrary, he is dreaded on account of his malice; and his base libels please the ill-natured and envious."

"And know you not," asked his father, "that only the base and evil array themselves against the good? Is there a 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 and self-possessed, and to maintain your ground in reliance on Him to whom alone you are accountable. Do that, Friedemann, and no stupid or malicious critic can make you dissatisfied with yourself."

Here Caroline came in, announcing that a stranger wished to speak with her father.

"He would not," she said, "give his name."

Sebastian bade her bring him in. Presently a sharp voice called out,

"_Bon soir, mon cher_ papa!" and the stranger entered and took the old man's hand. "Do you not know me?"

Friedemann recognized him, and saluted Monsieur von Scherbitz.

"Ha! our ex-court-organist. The same ill-boding frown between the brows as in 1737! You are little changed in thirteen years. And I, at fifty-three, am grown to be a first lieutenant."

"You proved a friend to my son in his danger," said Sebastian, "and are therefore welcome to me and mine. To what lucky chance am I indebted for this visit to my quiet home?"

"To the most unlucky, my dear 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 lapdog. 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."

Sebastian felt a horror creep over him at the sarcastic, misanthropic wit of his visitor, and sought to change the conversation. But Scherbitz went on jesting in his bitter way about his tragical destiny, concluding with the information that he had come over to Leipzig simply to see Papa Bach once more in his life; for, on the word of a first lieutenant, he had loved and honored him since the first time he had seen him thirteen years ago.

The next morning Scherbitz walked in the little garden behind Thomas's school, bounded by its high wall. He saw Caroline fastening a vine to an _espalier_, and came to assist her. In a conversation with her, he learned that none of the daughters of Bach had any talent for music. The charming singing he had heard early in the morning was by Madam Bach. But Caroline had a poetic taste, and was Friedemann's favorite sister.

In talking with Friedemann, his friend could not fail to discover the morbid state of his mind. Scherbitz thought it came from thinking too deeply.

"Not the will," he said, "but action removes mountains. We are but philosophers, and the slaves of circumstances. Had not the minister played the spy on you and his pretty niece, had not I stepped on the lapdog's foot, we might both have been at this moment sitting quietly in Dresden; you beside Natalie, witching the world with music; I as a merry page of fifty-three, jesting and enduring."

"Do you know," said Friedemann, and as he spoke his countenance altered strangely, "I have often prayed that I might be mad, for a time--not for ever!" In a quick, vehement tone, "Oh! no--no--not for ever; but mad enough to forget. And yet, the memory of what I have suffered would even then cling to me!"

He pressed his hands with a wild gesture over his eyes.

"You must not talk so wildly," said the lieutenant soothingly. "You are yet young, and can accomplish much."

"What can I do?" cried Friedemann with harrowing laughter. "Nothing, nothing! At eight and thirty all is dead with me; I am older than you! Ha! mark you not where _madness_ lurks yonder behind the door, making ready to spring upon my neck as I go out? He dares not seize on me when my father is near; he shrinks up till he is little, and hides himself in a spider's web over the window. But he shall not get hold of me! 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!_ what is the matter?" cried the lieutenant, and, seizing his friend by the shoulders, he shook him violently. "Friedemann Bach! do you not hear me?"

Friedemann stared at him vacantly. At length his face lost its unnatural expression; his eyes became like living eyes, and he asked softly what M. von Scherbitz wanted.

"What makes you such an idiot, man? Recollect yourself!" cried Scherbitz.

Friedemann gave a forced laugh.

"You take a jest deeply," he said. "And you really believe that I am sometimes mad? Not yet, friend! I am more rational than ever."

"Well, _mon ami_, it was your jest; but one should not paint the devil on the wall. Sit down, and play me something till I get over my fright. You acted your part so naturally!"

Friedemann sat down to the instrument and began to play.

"I did not dream of this," muttered the lieutenant; while Friedemann, after playing half an hour, suddenly let his hands drop, sank back, and fell fast asleep.

* * * * *

On the morning of the 21st of July, 1750, the church-bells were ringing a solemn yet cheerful peal, inviting the pious to the house of God. The sun shone brightly; the old man's heart was renewed in love and devotion, and even Friedemann's gloomy breast was penetrated with the beam of comfort, joy, and love. He had spent a part of the night in studying a masterpiece of his father's, the great Passion music. Full of the grandeur of the work, his face animated, he was walking to and fro in his father's chamber, pondering a similar work which he thought of undertaking.

Sebastian sat in his arm-chair, with folded arms, dressed ready for church. He followed with his eyes, smiling affectionately, the movements of his son. After a while, he said,

"I am glad the Passion music pleases you so well. I have a work of quite another kind, finished, the first idea of which I got from your _Fughetten_. 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 was inscribed, "To my son Friedemann."

"I meant it for you, in case of my death before I saw you," said the old man. "You may break the seal."

Friedemann opened the packet. It contained that nobly conceived, admirably executed work which from the day of its appearance has commanded the reverent admiration of all the initiated--_The Art of Fugues_, by Johann Sebastian Bach.

Friedemann looked over the manuscript with sparkling eyes.

"And _my_ poor attempt," he cried, "has suggested a work destined to immortalize its author! I have not lived in vain. O my father! thanks. You have made me a noble present."

"You have rewarded me, Friedemann."

Sebastian went on to pour into his son's heart the kindly words of wisdom.

"While you labor to deserve the appreciation of your equals," he said, "strive to instruct those who cannot thus repay you. It is for man only to show to the best that he belongs to the best. Let your light shine--else you lower yourself, and rebel against your Master."

The chime of the bells, that had ceased, now recommenced; and Madam Bach came in with her daughters, young Christian, and the lieutenant. All were ready for church. Madam Bach gave her husband his prayer-book and a bunch of flowers; Caroline brought his hat.

Sebastian rose, gave his arm to his wife, and walked to the door. Turning back an instant, he glanced at the window shaded with vine-leaves glistening in the sunlight, and said,

"What a lovely morning!"

As he went out of the room, he stopped suddenly, and let fall the flowers and the prayer-book. The women screamed with fright. The old man struggled for a few moments, then sank back lifeless into the arms of his son.

Thus died Johann Sebastian Bach, by a stroke of apoplexy.

* * * * *

Three years had passed. The wealthy Baron von Globig celebrated the feast of the vintage at his magnificent villa not far from Dresden. Gilded gondolas, with long and many-colored pennants, were gliding to and fro over the bosom of the Elbe, landing the distinguished guests. The profuse splendor that marked all the preparations was worthy of the favorite of the Count von Bruhl. Nothing the most fastidious taste could suggest was wanting.

Few in the aristocratic company seemed to notice the host; but his lovely wife was the observed of all. She was dignified and courteous, but appeared to take little interest in any thing.

As twilight came on, colored lamps were lighted in the gardens, and gorgeous illuminations were displayed. Bands of musicians played alternately; stately men and beautiful women moved in the merry dance, and general hilarity prevailed.

When the company returned to the great drawing-room, the Prussian ambassador presented to the lady of the house a distinguished-looking man as Philip Emmanuel, the second son of the great Sebastian Bach.

The baroness colored, and gave a furtive glance around her. After a few words of conversation, she asked Bach, in a careless tone, where was his elder brother.

"We do not know," answered Philip sadly. "None of us has seen Friedemann since the day of our father's death, when he suddenly quitted Leipzig."

"Have you heard nothing of him?"

"Nothing--except that he had been at times before subject to fits of melancholy, which threatened his reason. We fear the worst."

The baroness turned away in silence. The baron came up, and presented a petition for a little piece of music from the celebrated Monsieur Bach.

"We are to have some variety," he added; "a bit of fun, by way of enhancing the effect of your divine playing. A poor, half-crazy musician from the Prague choir, who plays dances in the villages, will be permitted to give us a tune in the antechamber. The doors may be opened; but he must not come into the light, for his dress is shabby and disordered."

The music sounded from the ante-room. A servant threw open the doors, and in the imperfect light the guests saw a meanly-dressed man sitting at the piano, his back toward them. They had expected a joke; the baron having told many of them what a surprise he had in store. But when they heard the playing--the wonderful, entrancing melody, now towering into passion, now sinking to a harmonious plaint, which the poor, unknown musician drew from the instrument--all were deeply touched. The baroness and Philip stood, pale as death, looking inquiringly yet doubtingly upon each other. At a bold turn in the music, the baroness leaned toward him, whispering,

"'Tis he!" and Philip exclaimed aloud,

"It is my brother--Friedemann!"

The musician turned, sprang up, and rushed into Philip's arms. At sight of the baroness, he started back with the exclamation--"Natalie!"

The baroness sank back in a swoon. Friedemann tore himself from Philip's arms, forced his way through the crowd, and rushed from the house. The shock had brought on another attack of his awful malady.

* * * * *

An old man, past three score and ten, sat in a room in the upper story of a house in one of the suburbs of Berlin. He was reading a pile of music that lay on the table, making notes on the margin with a pencil. The room was poorly furnished, and lighted by a single lamp that flared in the currents of air, flinging fitful shadows on the wall. The storm raging without shook the loose panes in the window, and twisted the weather-cocks on the roof till they creaked as they swung. The cold had penetrated the chamber, and the fire in the grate was scanty. It was the last night of the year.

But all absorbed sat the old man, and heeded not cold or tempest as he read the music. His form was tall and emaciated; his pale face showed the ravages of age and disease. His thin, white locks fell back from his temples; but his large eyes had the brightness of youthful enthusiasm.

The bell struck midnight. The sounds of festal music, singing, and shouting came from the streets; and faintly on the wind came the swell of the _Te Deum_ chanted in a neighboring church.

The old man looked up from his reading, and listened attentively. There was a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes.

The door opened, and a young man, with a pale and melancholy face, and a form more meagre than the other's, came into the room.

"What hour struck?" asked the old man.

"Midnight. You had better go to bed."

"I do not need sleep. Look, I have been reading this legacy of my father. Ah! if you, poor Theodore, could have had such a father. What year has just begun?"

"Eighty-four."

"Eighty-four! Forty-seven years ago.... We will not speak of that."

"Poor old friend! Will you never tell me who you are?"

"You did not ask me the day I first saw you; when I found a madman just about to take his own life. I pulled away the weapon; I bade you live!"

"You saved my life; but what is it worth? You see me old even in youth."

"You will live many years yet."

"No. I suffer a great deal; I feel that my hours are numbered. But why not tell me your name?"

"He who composed that noble work," said the old man, pointing to the music, "was my father."

"The name was on the first leaf, with the title of the music, and you have torn it out! I do not understand music, you know. Tell me, old friend, what to call you?"

"'The Old Musician.'"

"So the few who know you in this great city always call you. But your other name?"

"I have promised to reveal it only to an artist in music."

Then, noticing the pallid and sunken cheek of his young companion, he said,

"Has the new year brought you nothing, Theodore?"

Theodore took a roll of money from his vest pocket, and threw it on the table.

"Gold!" exclaimed the old man.

"Yes--when we need it no longer!"

He drew out a flask from the pocket of his cloak.

"Wine, too; the best of Johannisberger! You have tasted no wine lately; drink to the new year."

The old man turned away; for bitter recollections came up, associated with the season.

Theodore took two glasses from the buffet, drew up a chair, sat down, and uncorked the flask. He filled the old man's glass and his own with the wine, which diffused a rich fragrance.

The old man asked, at length, how he came by such luck.

"I sold my paintings to a lord travelling through the city."

"What a pity you could not exhibit them!"

"Those sketches cost me seven years of more than labor: all I have thought, lived, suffered; the early dreams of youth; the stern repose after the struggle with fate! I sacrificed all. I spared not even the glimmering spark of life; and thought when the work was finished the laurel would deck my brow in death. All fancies! Wherever I offered my work, I was repulsed. The publishers thought the undertaking too expensive. Some advised me to paint scenes from the Seven Years' War; others called my sketches wild and fantastic."

"Ay, ay!" murmured the old man. "Lessing, who died three years ago, said to me rightly, 'All the artist accomplishes beyond the appreciation of the multitude, brings him neither profit nor honor! The highest must grovel with the worm.'"

"As long as I can remember, old friend, I have had but one passion--for my art. Yet must I degrade art to the rabble; must paint apish faces, while visions of divine loveliness float before me; must feel the genius within me comprehended by none; must be driven to despair of myself! With all my gifts, I must ask myself, at five and twenty, Wherefore have I lived?"

"Live on; the answer will come."

"Has it come to you? Had I gained the prize, I might have been like Raphael; you, like some great master of your art. Success was not for us; and we are doomed to insignificance."

"Silence!" cried the old man; "that leads to madness. I know the horror of madness. They tell me I was a long time so."

"No fear of that, old friend. We are both too near a sure harbor. Come, fill up your glass! Hark to the music and shouting in the streets. Here we sit, like the gods on the summit of Olympus, sipping nectar, and laughing at the fools below us. Drink as I do. No more? Well, yonder is your bed, and here is mine. Good-night to you."

They retired to rest. The storm ceased to beat on the window-panes; but the bell-ringing and music continued throughout the night.

The bright sunshine of morning flooded the chamber. The old man arose and went to the window. It was a clear, cold morning; the air was keen, the sky cloudless; the frost had wrought delicate tracery on the panes.

The old man threw his cloak over his shoulders, and stood some time at the window. Then he went to awaken his young friend.

He touched the hand that lay outside the bed-covering; it was cold and stiff! Poor Theodore had fainted in the struggle with destiny. Long the prey of heart-disease, he had died in the night.

The old man stood as if paralyzed, gazing on the face of his dead friend. His last stay was broken!

Sitting down by the body, he remained motionless the whole day. Late in the afternoon, the woman who kept the house came in with a message to Theodore, and found the old man exhausted and shivering with the cold. She led him into a warm room, and gave him nourishment.

When Theodore was buried, the gold he left was given to the old man, with whom he had lived two years, supplying the wants of both by his scanty earnings as a portrait-painter and the sale of a drawing now and then. Now that he had no resource for the future, the people of the house advised the old man to go to the overseer of the poor-house. He shook his head, saying, "No; I will go to Hamburg."

"To Hamburg!" echoed the housekeeper. "Hamburg is a long way from Berlin; you could not bear such a journey."

But the old man soon forgot his purpose. He resumed his wanderings through the streets of Berlin--his practice before he met with Theodore--stopping to listen whenever he heard music. He would sometimes go into the houses where concerts were given; and all who remembered him were glad to see "the Old Musician" once more.