“Certainly, if you want to ask anything.”
“No, not to ask; I want to thank him.”
“Well, you may come to-morrow morning.”
“I will come!”
Naumann was not a little surprised when the servant, the next morning, announced his strange visitor. To the question, who was the Old Musician? the man could give no other answer than—“He is the Old Musician, and nobody in Berlin knows his name. He is sometimes half crazy, but is said to have a thorough knowledge of music.”
“Let him come in,” said Naumann; and the lacquey opened the door for the old man.
Naumann rose when he saw him, for in spite of his mean apparel, he had a dignity of mien that inspired with involuntary respect. Advancing to meet him, he said:
“You are welcome, my good sir, though I know not by what name to address you. But you are a lover of the art, and that is enough. Be seated, I pray you.”
The old man, still standing, answered, “I come to thank you, sir chapel-master, for the pleasure of yesterday evening. I was privately a listener to the concert, in which were performed your latest compositions. I will not conceal from you my name; I am Friedemann Bach!”
Naumann stood petrified with astonishment. “Friedemann Bach!” he repeated at length, in a tone of deep and melancholy interest; “the great son of the great Sebastian Bach! It is strange, indeed! Only last year I saw your brother Philip Emanuel at Hamburg. The excellent old man mourns you as dead.”