“Let him do so,” was the reply, “and all who knew me in better days; for the knowledge of my life, as it is, would make them unhappy. Even in Berlin none know that Friedemann Bach yet lives; not even Mendelssohn, the friend of Lessing, to whom I owed, that while he lived, I needed not to starve.”
“What can I do for you?” asked Naumann. “Your brother told me your history. How shall I tell you all the admiration, the affection, the sorrow I have felt, and still feel for you? Tell me, what can I do?”
“Nothing,” answered Bach; “you have done everything for me, in showing me what I could and should have done. I strove after that which you have accomplished. You know wherefore I failed, how my life was wasted, why I fell short in all my bold and burning schemes. But you need not the warning of my history. You walk securely and cheerfully in the right path, and I can only thank you for your magnificent works. The blessing of God be with you! and now I feel that I have nothing more to do in this world.”
The Old Musician departed, and Naumann, when he had collected his thoughts, inquired in vain where he could be found. Friedemann had not suffered the boy who went home with him the preceding evening to go to his door. At length Naumann happened to meet with Moses Mendelssohn, and mentioned what had occurred. Mendelssohn was amazed to hear that Friedemann Bach was yet living, and in Berlin. The two made an appointment to go the next morning to the ancient abode of Lessing, where the Old Musician had lived.
They went together to the house of Lessing in the Friedrichstadt. The landlady opened the door.
“Does M. Friedemann Bach live here yet?” asked Mendelssohn.
“Ah, pardon me!” cried the woman, wiping her eyes with her apron; “just at this time yesterday they carried away my poor Old Musician! He died exactly three weeks after his young friend the painter, whom he loved so well.” Her voice was interrupted by tears.
Mendelssohn and Naumann left the house in silence.
Mᶜ Rae, sc.