“Cease, M. Scherbitz!” said Sebastian, in a low, mournful voice.
“I have little more to say, M. Cantor. Friedemann’s conscience gave him no peace day or night; and he suffered much from the fear of discovery. He fled to dissipation for relief. There were about him younger and older libertines. Thus I became acquainted with him; I, whose life has been an error! I would fain have aided him; but I saw then was not the time. His grief was too new; his passion reigned too fiercely in his breast; I looked to time for the cure, and sought only to keep him from too wild company. I was not always successful. Now, however, he has taken a wise step. He himself has broken off his connection with the Countess.”
“Heaven be praised!” cried Sebastian with joy; the page continued—
“First hear me out, M. Cantor; the minister has discovered their intimacy. He swears your son’s destruction—there I have baffled him; but I cannot prevent the necessity of Friedemann’s quitting this place.”
“It needs not!” said Sebastian, with quickness. “My poor son shall go hence; he needs comfort, and he can find it only with me!”
“He may come to you, then?” asked Scherbitz.
“What a question! Where is the father who can repel his unhappy child? And I know, sir, how unhappy my poor Friedemann must be; for I know, better than any other, his fiery soul! Bring him to me. I know he has ever loved his father; he must learn also to trust me with filial confidence!”
“My good sir!” cried Scherbitz with emotion, taking Sebastian’s hand, and pressing it to his bosom, “had I had such a father, I should have been something more than a page, in my fortieth year. Your Friedemann is saved!”
He left the apartment. Sebastian looked sadly after him, and murmured to himself, “Ah! you know not what is in my heart, and that I dare not speak the whole truth, if I would save my boy! My fairest dream is melted away—the dream I indulged, of finding in my first-born a friend, pure and true—such as I have sought my life long in vain! Oh! now I acknowledge, the truest friend, the purest joy, is Art! Without her, where should I find comfort? All thanks and praise to Him who has given the children of earth such a companion through their pilgrimage of life!”
He passed from the room into an adjoining dark one, where a small but excellent work of Silbermann’s was set up; he opened the piano, played a prelude, and began, with a full heart, the beautiful melody of an old song by Paul Gerhard, the first verse of which ran as follows:—