“Are you mad?”
“More reasonable than yourself, mein engel! Out on the blindness that cannot see the trap the wary bird-catcher has laid for the bird!”
“What mean you? What is the matter?”
“Sacre-bleu! Come to Faustina’s with me, or you are to-night on the road to Konigstein! The lord Minister knows all!” And he led him away.
Twilight had come on; Philip had called for lights, and placed himself beside his father, who, sitting at the table, was diligently perusing Friedemann’s last exercises and compositions, giving what he had read to his son, for the same purpose. At last, looking up, he asked—“Well, Philip, what think you of our Friedemann?”
“Ah, father,” replied the lad, “do not make sport of me! But indeed, I know not how to express what I think and feel. I am moved, rapt—I admire my brother. It seems to me often as if I were reading something of yours; and then all is again so strange to me—so different from yours—I feel troubled—I know not why. In short, I cannot feel undisturbed joy in these compositions.”
Sebastian looked grave and thoughtful for a moment, then turning with a smile to his son, he said—
“Yes, Philip, there is to me also something strange and paradoxical in Friedemann’s works; and this is more the case in his exercises and sketches, than in his finished pieces; yet I am not disturbed; yea, I deeply rejoice therein.”
“Rejoice?” repeated Philip, and looked doubtingly on his father; the latter continued—