“We do not know,” replied Philip, sadly; “Friedemann disappeared from Leipzig the day of our father’s death, and none of us have seen him since.”
The Baroness turned away without speaking again. The Baron came up and said in his bland tone—“Will you have the kindness, most honored sir, to let us hear before supper a little, if but a little piece from you? My guests will be delighted to listen to the celebrated Monsieur Bach; and to enhance the effect of your divine playing, I have, by way of fun, permitted a poor half crazy musician from the Prague choir, who plays dances in the villages, to give us a tune in the ante-chamber. The doors may be opened, but he must not come into the light, for his dress is soiled and disordered.”
Meanwhile a full accord sounded from the ante-room; a servant threw open the doors, and in the imperfect light the guests had a glimpse of a meanly dressed man, sitting at the piano, with his back turned towards the door.
The company had anticipated a joke, for the Baron had privately informed every body of his purpose: but it was quite otherwise, when they had heard the wonderful, entrancing harmony, now towering into passion, now sinking to a melodious plaint, which the poor unknown musician drew from the instrument. All were touched; but the Baroness and Philip stood, pale as death, and looked inquiringly, yet doubtingly, upon each other. Suddenly, at a bold turn in the music, the Baroness whispered—“’Tis he!”—and Philip cried aloud—“’Tis he! ’tis my brother—Friedemann!”
The musician turned round, sprang up, and rushed into Philip’s arms. But at sight of the Baroness, he started back with the exclamation—“Natalie!”
The Baroness fell back in a swoon. Friedemann, forcing himself a way through the crowd, rushed from the house.
THE OLD MUSICIAN.
In a room in the upper story of a house in the Friedrichstadt of Berlin, sat an old man, reading musical notes that lay on a table before him. From time to time he made observations with a pencil upon the margin; and seemed so intently occupied that he noticed nothing around him. The room was poorly furnished, and lighted only by a small lamp that flared in the currents of wind, flinging gloom and fitful shadows on the wall. A few coals glimmered in the grate; the loose panes clattered in the window, shaken by the storm without; the weather-cocks creaked as they swung on the roof, and the moaning blast uttered a melancholy sound. It was a night of cold and tempest, and the last of the old year.
The figure of the old man was tall and stately, but emaciated; and his pale and furrowed visage showed the ravages of age and disease. His thin snow-white locks fell back from his temples; but his eyes were large and bright, and flashing with more than youthful enthusiasm, as he read the music.
The bell struck midnight. From the streets could be heard festive music and shouts of mirth, blended in wild confusion; and the wind bore the chant of the Te Deum from a neighboring church.