“Eh? how come you to such an honor? I thought those matters were under the jurisdiction of M. Hasse.”
“My dear father, as the young lady’s music-master, I cannot well decline commissions of the sort, especially as they here promote one’s reputation. With regard to M. Hasse, he departed hence early this morning; we shall no more have the pleasure of hearing new songs from him.”
“Hasse gone hence?” repeated Sebastian, with astonishment—“the excellent, amiable Hasse? Eh? where is he gone? Tell me, Friedemann!”
“It is a long story,” replied his son, with a meaning glance at his young brother.
The father understood the hint. “You may go till meal-time, Philip,” he said, “and amuse yourself by seeing the city.” Philip bowed obediently, gave his hand to his brother, and quitted the room. “Now, my son,” said Sebastian, “we are alone; what has happened to M. Hasse?”
Friedemann gave him an account of Hasse’s departure—of his contemplated journey to Italy, and the well known cause of his disquiet and exile. Bach listened attentively. When his son had ended, he said, confidentially—“It was right that Philip should not hear such a tale—and that you suggested it to me to send him away. Hem! at court, indeed, all is not as it should be; there is much said in our Leipzig, as I could tell you, about it. Well, one must not listen to every thing; our most gracious Elector and sovereign means well with his subjects, and whoever is a faithful subject, will acknowledge that, and speak not of things which he who commits them has to answer for. We will say no more about it; you will go this afternoon to her gracious ladyship, and I warrant me, know how to demean yourself. I have cared enough, methinks, for your manners.” Friedemann pressed his father’s hand, and looked fondly on the good old man. “Tell me now, sir court-organist,” continued the elder Bach, “what you have been doing of late. You have sent me but little for a long while; I hope you have not been idle.”
“Surely not, my father! I have worked assiduously, but have done little that satisfied me; and what does not satisfy me, I would rather destroy, than venture before the world. In art, one should accomplish the best, or nothing at all.”
“No, no!” cried Sebastian, interrupting his son; “that would be, indeed, a hard condition for many; for the greatest number among those who earnestly and honestly devote themselves to art; who find therein, often, the only consolation and happiness of their lives. The chosen are few—the called are many! And trust me, Friedemann, the called are not held in less esteem for the sake of the chosen, if they prove themselves true laborers! Art is like love. We all bear and cherish love in our hearts, and whether the bosom is covered by a regal mantle, or by a beggar’s cloak, love, which dwells within, owns but one home—Heaven. Could the highest and the best alone avail in art, how should we and our equals stand? I can do little, but my will is honest, and vast is my reward! Yes! I am, as regards earthly good, like the poor man in the Evangelist; yet I would not exchange with a monarch! I rejoice in humility over my success, great or small as it may be; and for the rest, I submit me to the will of God!”
“Oh, that all had your apprehension of Art, my dear father; that all would strive to practise it as you do!”
“You will, my boy!” said Sebastian, tenderly. “I find much that is excellent in your Fughetten. Be not too severe with yourself; and remember that the fresh, free impulses of a young heart are ever accordant with the dictates of justice and truth.”