PART FIRST.
On New Year's eve of the year 1736, a brilliant company was assembled in the salons of the Count von Bruhl, lord premier to the Elector of Saxony. The mansion, opposite the castle in Dresden, was illuminated so brightly that the whole street in front was light as day. In a shadow of the castle wall stood a man wrapped in a cloak, gazing up at the windows, behind which could be seen the gay confusion of guests. Presently one—a lady splendidly dressed—came close to one of the windows, opened it, and stepped out upon the balcony. The light gleamed on the jewels in her coronet. She stood but an instant in the air, being called back; the window was closed, and she was lost in the throng.
The solitary watcher outside, with a deeply-drawn sigh, turned to depart. His hand was seized as he did so by a passer-by—a man in the dress of the court pages.
"Good evening!" cried a cheery voice. "How glad I am to find you at last! What were you doing here?"
The other laughed, evading an answer, and, drawing his cloak about him, complained of the cold.
"Come to Seconda's!" cried the page. "You will find plenty of hot punch there."
The two walked on to the celebrated Italian restaurant near the old market. The scene there was as brilliant as at the premier's. A gay company was assembled in the largest room, where the new-comers took seats at the table. As they threw off their hats and cloaks, the page was seen to be a man of about forty years of age, with a face deeply lined with the marks of free living. His eyes were bright and merry, and his mouth was liberal in smiles. His companion was a strikingly handsome man of twenty-five, with a pale and haughty countenance, and a form well proportioned and majestic. His expression was grave, and a satirical curl was in his lip when he spoke; his large, dark eyes were now fiercely flashing, now dreamy and melancholy, and they were often downcast and shaded by long, heavy lashes.
"You are dull to-night, mon ami!" cried the jovial page, whose name was Von Scherbitz. "Banish your gloom; it is no time for it."
"Have patience with me," said the young man in a low tone, and with an attempt at a laugh. "I cannot always keep even with you. I have served but a two years' brotherhood, you know."
"In our club, yes; yet one year has spread your fame in music over all Europe! Friedemann Bach has but one rival in renown—the admirable Sebastian!"
A flush mounted to the young man's brow.
"Call him not a rival!" he exclaimed. "I have to thank my father for all I have ever done; and I feel my own insignificance beside his greatness. I feel, too, how unworthy I am of his love."
"Nonsense!" cried Scherbitz. "Your good father is strict, perhaps; pourquoi? he is old; you are young and impetuous; you have your liberal ideas and your adventures, and keep them from his knowledge, to spare him chagrin. Where is the harm in this?"
Friedemann was leaning his head on his hand, which he passed slowly across his forehead, as if waving away the trouble of discussing the point. The punch was placed before them, and the tankards were filled. The guests at the round table drank, as they did; and others came in; among them military officers, painters, and musicians. As a party of distinguished-looking persons entered, the page rose to greet one of them, calling him "Signor Hasse." The gentleman glanced around the company, but declined a seat at the table, retreating to a distant corner. Here he bade the waiter remove the light from a small table in front of him, and bring him supper by himself.
The page called Friedemann's attention to the solitude and gloom chosen by the famous musician. Yet he was well known to be fond of good company, and was universally respected.
"Is it on account of his wife?" asked young Bach.
"Exactly; the brilliant Faustina Hasse, the admired singer, the idolized of all Dresden. They do not live happily."
"You cannot help seeing," observed Friedemann, "that strength is wanting in his character—it is wanting in his compositions. They have softness and melody; but how little of manly power!"
"Yet he is the favorite composer in the world of fashion."
More guests came in, and the general merriment waxed loud. The glasses were rapidly filled and emptied. The conversation among the younger part of the company was that of jovial revellers, intent on as much amusement as they could obtain out of a gayly-dressed officer of the elector's guard, and a chamberlain he had brought in to serve as a butt for their jokes. Friedemann observed them with haughty gravity, stealing a glance now and then at Signor Hasse in his corner.
The chamberlain was flippant with tales of court scandal, at which there were uproarious bursts of laughter. Presently, half-drunk, he was reciting some verses; and at the close he filled his glass and toasted Signora Hasse.
All were silent as Hasse rose and approached the table.
"Gentlemen," he said with dignity, "I have the honor to wish you all a good evening, and farewell. To-morrow morning I leave Dresden."
"To go whither?" asked Scherbitz.
"To Italy."
The company knew by his tone that he meant not to return. There was a moment's deep silence, and then an officer asked:
"Does the signora go with you?"
"No; she remains in Dresden," replied the composer.
Hasse then turned to Friedemann, and grasped his hand.
"Commend me to your father, Monsieur Bach," he said warmly. "Tell him he shall yet hear something good of Scarlatti's disciple."
There was a faltering in his tone as he spoke these last words, and turning away, he left the room. Friedemann sighed deeply as he looked after him, and pushed away his glass, which Scherbitz had just filled.
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.