“I know what you mean by this question; your own light, glad spirit accords not with the earnest, oft gloomy character displayed in Friedemann’s works. Heaven knows, he inherits not the gloomy from me, though I have always dealt earnestly with art. But, observe, Friedemann’s character is not yet fixed. All assures me there is something great in the man; but he is hardly yet determined how to develop it. He seeks the form, by which he shall represent what lives within him. I have examined closely and dispassionately; it is not a father’s partiality that leads me to speak as I do. Friedemann seeks for himself a new path to the goal. Will he succeed? I hope so, when I reflect that every strong spirit has sought and discovered a new path, winning what his predecessor would have given up as impossible. I know not if I deserve so high a degree of praise as has been accorded to me; but this I know, Philip, and acknowledge, that from her origin, Art has ever advanced, and still advances, and her temple is not yet completed. Will it ever be? I think not; for the perfect dwells not on earth; yet therefore is Art on earth so divine and eternal, that we may ever long for her fairest rewards, and strive after them with our best strength.”
“It is so,” said Philip, struck with his father’s remarks; “if one thinks he has accomplished something worthy, he soon finds there exists in his fantasy images far nobler and fairer, than with all his industry and taste he can produce.”
The conversation was interrupted by a stout knock at the door. The elder Bach answered by a “Come in!” the door opened, and two tall men entered, and inquired for the court-organist.
“I expect my son every moment,” answered Bach, and asked if the gentlemen had any message to leave. They replied that they were friends of the court-organist, and would wait for his coming. They seated themselves without farther ceremony; Sebastian also resumed his seat, and endeavored to introduce general conversation. But his politeness and his trouble were in vain; the two visitors only answered in monosyllables, and in a tone by no means encouraging, so that an awkward silence soon prevailed, and Sebastian, as well as Philip, wished, with all their hearts, for Friedemann’s arrival. Still Friedemann came not; but after the lapse of a quarter of an hour, the door was opened without a previous knock, and the page, von Scherbitz, entered.
“Bon soir!” cried he, in an indifferent tone, while he fixed a keen look on the two strangers, who rose from their seats as they perceived him.
“Whom have I the honor—” asked Sebastian, somewhat surprised at the unceremonious intrusion.
“Von Scherbitz,” replied he, “page in the service of His Highness, and a friend of your son Friedemann, if so be that you are the elder Bach.”
“I am,” returned Sebastian, smiling. “My son must be in soon; these gentlemen, also his friends, are waiting for him.”
“Friends?” repeated von Scherbitz, “friends of Friedemann! So, so!” He placed himself directly before the two men, who were visibly embarrassed, and looked down. The page stood awhile in silence; at length he said in a cold, ironical tone, “Messieurs! you are come too late, in spite of the haste with which his Excellency thought proper to send you, and indeed you are here quite unnecessarily. Go, messieurs! Carry your lord the compliments of the page, M. Scherbitz, and tell him the court-organist, Bach, is with the Signora Hasse; I myself took him there, informed the sovereign of my doing, as in duty bound, and have already obtained my pardon!”
The two men started up and left the apartment without answering a word; the page threw himself on a seat, and burst into loud laughter.