“What does that mean? Leipzig is the musical capital of all Europe!”
“Yes—it is very strange—but quite true! I find little or nothing of it here, admirably as my father, my brothers and their scholars execute their parts. Something is still wanting.”
“Mademoiselle Bach, you must have studied in Professor Gottsched’s college, since you are not satisfied even with your father and your brothers!”
“Ah! you must understand me!” cried Caroline, eagerly. “If I would enjoy my music in perfection, all around me must harmonize, and that is not possible here. But in a wood, surrounded by high mountains, the summits glowing in the morning or evening light, while it is yet twilight below; or when only a ray here and there streams down upon the foliage; while above, in the deep blue heaven, clouds are moving, white, rosy and golden—that is a charming accord. And the tops of the trees waving and whispering—the bushes answering in sighs—the brook singing its constant, yet ever new melody—the flowers moving like magic bells—the wild bird trilling his song! And when the sun is set, and the moon climbs the rocky verge and pours her soft silvery light on the scene,—or when dark clouds gather in the heavens, and hissing lightnings dart through them, and echo reverberates the thunder, and the swollen stream roars, and foams over the rocks and the crushed trees—all is to me, music!”
Scherbitz looked a moment in astonishment at the young lady, then answered—“Mademoiselle, it is possible you are not a singer, but you are a poet!” And he left her, to communicate his discovery to his friend.
Friedemann, with a bitter smile, replied—“It is as you say, von Scherbitz, and that it is so, is reason enough to drive me mad, if there were none other! I love this child, as my own soul. I have seen her grow up, and ripen into bloom—I shall see her die—for the fairest gifts of heaven are only lent to poor unhappy man, that their loss may add to his misery.”
“True, and false, mon ami! as we take it. Do you know in what lies your fault and mine? We philosophize too much! Do not laugh; parole d’honneur—I speak in earnest! It is true, each of us in his way; we should have done better by acting, instead of thinking so deeply; instead of mocking at, and saying all possible evil of this miserable world—we should have acted. Not the will, but action, removes mountains. There lies a paradox in the truth that the greatest thinker, when it comes to the deed, can do absolutely nothing; a paradox, but it manifests at the same time the wisdom of the Creator; for wo to the system of the world, if the mightiest thoughts and designs were deeds! Satan, who revolted, cannot be dangerous to heaven. Man, whom the Maker created after his own image, could, if he possessed the power to do what he imagines in the moments of his exstacy—”
“Cease, von Scherbitz!” cried Friedemann; “I see the abyss before me!”
“Va! we are safe, cher ami! for as I said, we are but philosophers. Had not the minister played the spy on you and his pretty niece, had not I, malheureusement, stepped upon the foot of the Countess’ lap dog, we should be perhaps at this moment both sitting quietly in Dresden—you as Natalie’s fireside friend, bewitching her, yourself, and the world—I, as a merry page of fifty-three, jesting and enduring—and, morbleu! am I not enduring even now?”
“Do you know,” asked Friedemann, and as he spoke his countenance assumed a strange expression—“do you know I have often fervently prayed that I might be mad—for a time—not for ever!” in a quick and vehement tone—“no, no! for all the world not for ever! but for a time I would be mad, that I might forget; and again, I feel the memory of what I have experienced would even then cling to me.” He pressed his hand with a wild gesture before his eyes.